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MEMOIR 



HENltY AUGUSTUS INGALLS 

BY 

REV. GEORGE W.' BURNAP, 
i 

PASTOR OF THE FIRST INDEPENDENT CHURCH OF BALTIMORE. 



SELECTIONS FROM HIS WRITINGS. 



None knew him but to love him, 

None named him but to praise." — Halleck. 



BOSTON: 
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY 

1846. 



o<V* 



■«**a» 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by 

James Munroe and Company, 

in tho Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 






BOSTON: 
PRINTED BY THURSTON, TORRY AND CO. 

31 Devonshire Street. 



PREFACE 



The Committee, appointed by the Me- 
tropolitan Association to make a selec- 
tion from the writings of our late fellow 
member, Henry A. Ingalls, and with it 
publish a Memoir of him, submit the present 
volume as the result of their labors. 

For the Memoir, we are indebted to the 
Reverend George W. Burnap, of Baltimore. 
It is a beautiful and appropriate tribute to 
departed worth ; for it we tender to the 
author our grateful acknowledgments. 

With regard to the selections, it is not 
intended to submit them to the " unfeeling 
ordeal of criticism." Many of them were 
written at an early period of Mr. Ingalls's 
life, for his own amusement and improve- 
ment; and all, with perhaps one or two ex- 
ceptions, were, undoubtedly, never thought 
of for publication. 



IV PREFACE. 

The object of the following publication 
is, simply, to embody in an enduring form, 
the memorials which are left in his writings, 
and the recollections of his friends, of the 
mind and character of a young man, dis- 
tinguished for moral and intellectual attain- 
ment. The Association which undertook 
the enterprise, were desirous to possess, in- 
dividually, the means of recalling more 
vividly the image of their departed friend, 
and thus of kindling within themselves an 
ever-renewing desire of that excellence 
which they admired in him. They wished 
to rescue from oblivion the memory of one, 
whose example is calculated both to stimu- 
late and encourage the young in all that is 
good. They felt, too, that the benefit 
would not be confined to themselves : for 
whoever should thus learn his early develop- 
ment both of mind and character, would be 
reminded of his own powers and responsi- 
bilities, and be exhorted "to go and do like- 
wise." They would have it manifest, that 
the opinion too prevalent among young men, 
that virtue, morality and honor, go unob- 



PREFACE. 



served and unappreciated, and consequently 
there is one reason less for their being prac- 
tised, is erroneous ; as the affection of every 
member of our Association for the memory 
of our departed friend, abundantly testifies. 
They commend it to the attention of the 
young, as a plain, unvarnished tale of real 
life, demonstrating by facts, how much may 
be accomplished in a short life, directed by 
wisdom and sanctified by true religion. 

JOHN J. ANDERSON, 

L. B. HARDCASTLE, 

THOMAS J. TAYLOR, V Committee. 

JAMES M. DRAKE, 

REUBEN H. CTJDLIPP, 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Memoir, . . . . . . 9-76 

SELECTIONS. 

First Anniversary Address, . . . .77 

Second do. do. .... 92 

debates. 

Philosophy versus Poetry, .... 107 

Ancient versus Modern Laws, . . . 123 

Youth versus Manhood, ..... 134 

The Stream of Tendencies, .... 141 

Happiness, ... ... 147 

Novel Reading, ...... 154 

Influence of Character, .... 161 

The Close of the Year, 167 

£ale. 
Isabella the Fair, ..... 171 

The Vision, 186 



Viii CONTENTS. 




jftagraeittfl. 




An Old Man's Reflections, 


. 193 


Death, ..... 


197 


Hope, ..... 


. 199 


Tear?, , 


201 


Guardian Spirits, 


. 202 


Proper Use of Time, 


204 


Time's Changes, .... 


. 205 


Fame, ...... 


206 


For an Album, .... 


. 208 


Memory, ..... 


209 



MEMOIR 



The friends of the subject of the following 
Memoir have felt themselves constrained by their 
affection for him, and by a desire to diffuse the 
influence of so bright an example of moral ex- 
cellence, to embody in a more enduring form the 
memorials that are left of a brief, yet honorable 
and well-spent life. We are told by a wise man, 
that "honorable age is not that which standeth 
in length of time, nor is measured by number of 
years. But wisdom is the gray hair unto men, 
and an unspotted life is old age." That life is 
long enough which fulfils life's great purpose ; 
and to the mature in virtue, no death can be un- 
timely. 

There never was a time, perhaps, when there 
was more need that honorable mention should 
be made of high moral attainment in early life. 
There is a strong tendency, in our age and 
country, to overlook and underrate the import- 
ance of character in the young. There is great 
2 



10 MEMOIR. 

ambition in parents to give their children the 
best advantages of intellectual education, to hur- 
ry them into the world, and then to push their 
fortunes by every expedient. The signs of thrift 
and enterprise are watched with the most anxious 
eye. But the formation and development of 
character, which is, after all, the only sure basis 
of permanent prosperity, are looked upon with 
comparative indifference. The consequence is, 
too often, ultimate and bitter disappointment. 
Without character, talent, acquisition and the 
most flattering prospects, are sure to make early 
and total shipwreck. Hence the spectacle, which 
all our large cities exhibit, of multitudes of young 
men, to whom life, though commenced under 
the most favorable auspices, is a complete mis- 
carriage ; who, instead of being ornaments to 
society, are its pests and scourges; instead of 
being the joy and comfort of their parents, are 
their sorrow and disgrace, bowing down whole 
families, in the midst of affluence and splendor, 
to mourning and tears. It is salutary, to show 
the young of our large cities, that the paths of 
temptation may be trodden, even by the inexpe- 
rienced, uncorrupted and unsoiled ; that contact 
with the multitude by no means involves con- 
tamination with their vices ; that the soul may 
maintain its purity in the midst of a tainted at- 



MEMOIR. 11 

mosphere ; and true piety may spring up and 
mature, in the hurry and din of a mighty me- 
tropolis. 

Henry Augustus Ingalls was born in Merri- 
mack, N. H., on the eighth of September, 1823, 
and resided in his native town till, at the age of 
ten, he removed with his father's family to the 
city of New- York. Until this period, there was 
nothing in his character to distinguish him from 
his associates, except, perhaps, a propensity to 
reading, and a remarkably equable temper and 
disposition. Soon after his removal to New-York, 
he was placed at school, and became very fond 
of study and books. He always occupied a 
prominent position in his class, and excelled in 
most branches of study. In 1835, he entered 
the Mechanics' Society School in Crosby-street, 
where he remained four years, completed his 
school education, and graduated in April, 1839. 
While at this school, his career was marked by 
a harmonious development of intellectual and 
moral excellence. One of his associates bears 
witness, that "while at school, Henry was be- 
loved by every schoolfellow ; he was esteemed, 
not alone for his superior mental qualities, well- 
informed mind and studious habits, but for his 
even and never-varying moral and courteous in- 



12 MEMOIR. 

tercourse with those about him." As a testimony 
of the estimation in which he was held, during 
the last year of his course at school, the graduat- 
ing class, having out of respect and gratitude to 
the institution in which they had been educated, 
formed an association for the collecting of a cabi- 
net of natural science, unanimously, with the 
exception of his own vote, placed him at its 
head. To this honor he was twice reelected. 
Upon all these enterprises for self-improvement, 
he entered with a warm, but steady and perse- 
vering zeal. On all public occasions, he acquit- 
ted himself, both as a speaker and writer, with 
distinguished success. This school association 
became the nucleus of a more extensive and per- 
manent society. Those who had derived so 
much pleasure from literary intercourse at school, 
determined. to prolong their friendship and mental 
advantages, by forming a literary society, called 
the " Metropolitan Association ; " the object 
of which was, " to promote a spirit of inquiry 
on useful subjects, and to extend the knowledge 
of its members by means of debates, essays, 
lectures, &c." Over this association, young In- 
galls was chosen to preside ; an evidence that his 
merits were discerned and appreciated, as well 
after, as before, his separation from the scenes of 
his pupilage. Of his connection with this so- 



MEMOIR. 13 

ciety, the following communication from an inti- 
mate friend gives a gratifying and satisfactory- 
account. 

Enfield, N. C.j March 22d, 1845. 
Dear Sir : 

I lately received a letter from Mr. J. J. Ander- 
son, of New- York, communicating the pleasing 
intelligence, that a committee, of which he is 
chairman, has been appointed by the Metropolitan 
Association to select for publication a portion of 
the writings of the late Henry A. Ingalls, and 
that the work will contain a biographical sketch 
of the author, which you are to contribute. Mr. 
Anderson therefore, desires me, as one who was 
favored with the intimate friendship of the de- 
ceased, for several years preceding his death, to 
give you some information respecting his charac- 
ter and deportment, whilst connected with the 
above mentioned association, where my acquaint- 
ance with him commenced, and the estimation 
in which he was held by his fellow members. 

The duty which this request imposes, T feel 
myself incompetent to perform ; nor would I 
venture to trespass on your attention, were I not 
apprehensive lest my silence would seem to 
manifest any indifference towards the memory 
of a deeply regretted and venerated friend. True, 
I had the best opportunity of becoming acquaint- 



14 MEMOIR. 

ed with the rare merits of Mr. Ingalls, and of 
ascertaining the high degree in which he pos- 
sessed the esteem and affection of his associates. 
But I am aware you do not want generalities ; 
and when I attempt translating my recollections 
into words, I find gentleness, truth and benignity 
so blended with all he said and did, as to render 
it a matter of extreme difficulty, to refer to any 
particular acts, in which the goodness of his 
nature was more prominently exhibited. It is 
the confession of all his friends, that he glided 
into their hearts at the very first interview. 
That it was no holyday excellence which caused 
this favorable prepossession, is evidenced by the 
fact, that the longer he was known, the more he 
was admired and loved. The uniform upright- 
ness of his character, and the attractive suavity 
of his manners, are still more fully attested by 
the existence of the association, which now 
seeks to honor his memory, and the circum- 
stances attending its establishment. 

A number of young men, in New-York, few 
of them beyond their legal infancy, met to form 
an association, for the purpose of mutual im- 
provement. All were enthusiastic for the success 
of the undertaking ; but, from a body of inex- 
perienced youths, who could be selected, of 
sufficient wisdom and influence, to conduct their 



MEMOIR. 15 

proceedings in a suitable manner, and direct their 
energies into a proper channel? Strange to say, 
one of the youngest amongst us, was considered 
the best calculated to accomplish these ends. 
Though previously unknown to the majority of 
us, Mr. Ingalls was chosen president at our sec- 
ond sitting; and in this capacity, he more than 
justified the confidence reposed in him. To 
his consummate judgment, and the ascendency 
which his virtues had obtained over the minds 
of the members, may be attributed the continu- 
ance of our society. Without giving the least 
offence, he perfectly succeeded in tempering 
rashness and preserving order. When any mis- 
behavior occurred, he rebuked it in a manner so 
sweetly impressive, that the offence was not 
repeated ; and the persons censured, were more 
strongly bound to him than before. Every thing 
tending to promote the objects for which we had 
combined, received his most devoted support ; 
and when, according, to our rules, he ceded the 
chair to another, the prosperity of our society, 
principally through his management, was placed 
on a permanent basis. 

In a literary point of view, his talents much 
elevated the character of our society. The ad- 
vantages of a cultivated intellect were so brightly 
exemplified in his own person, that his sugges- 



16 MEMOIR. 

tions were readily attended to, on all matters 
connected with mental discipline. In debate, 
he displayed the utmost skilfulness and prompti- 
tude, whether in giving a forcible exposition of 
his own views, or successfully unravelling the 
defective argumentation of his adversaries ; at 
the same time, never permitting a word to escape 
him which could hurt the feelings of the most 
sensitive. Thus, while he generally triumphed 
in every discussion, no hostility rankled in the 
minds of the defeated. His essays on various 
subjects, always found attentive and charmed list- 
eners. In a word, the impression created by the 
manifestation of his powers, both in extempore 
and prepared composition, was such, that one 
sentiment pervaded the minds of all : — since the 
spring is so rich in promise, what treasures will 
not the summer and autumn disclose ! 

If discord sometimes prevailed in our body, 
and feelings of enmity were engendered amongst 
the members, Mr. Ingalls participated only in 
their love ; for at his hands nothing was experi- 
enced but affability and kindness. When angry 
conflicts ensued, he used his best exertions to 
restore harmony. On one occasion, a warm alter- 
cation had taken place between two members, 
in the course of the discussion ; after the meet- 
ing dispersed, he was seen in earnest conversation 



MEMOIR. 17 

with one of the parties. He brought them to- 
gether, and the consequence was, a cordial 
reunion. This line of conduct was duly appre- 
ciated. I might multiply instances of his worth ; 
but, perhaps it is enough to say, that every act 
done by him during the time he bore a part in 
our proceedings, tended deservedly to strengthen 
his claims to the respect and admiration of his 
brethren. It is my conviction, that no individual 
in similar circumstances, was ever more loved 
and honored. So far from hearing a word, at 
any time, uttered to his disparagement, I ever 
heard his name spoken of in terms of unqualified 
commendation. Of one endowed with so many 
amiable qualities, it is hard to say what was the 
distinguishing excellency, or what most endeared 
him to all who knew him. He was, perhaps, 
the only one unconscious of his own merits; 
for, like his Divine Master, he was "meek and 
humble at heart." He resorted to no artifice, 
put on no disguise, in order to obtain good will 
from men. In his conversation, he eschewed all 
frivolous topics and gave candid expression to 
his sentiments. The stainless purity of his life 
was, in itself, the most withering rebuke to the 
vicious; and still he was acceptable to persons 
of the most conflicting opinions, and of the most 
opposite shades of character. I marked the 



18 MEMOIR. 

unvaried mildness of his demeanor, his gentleness 
and sweetness of nature, which made all around 
him happy ; his sympathy for the poor and the 
desolate, and the oppressed ; his expansive phi- 
lanthropy, which refused to be narrowed by the 
limits of creed, country or color. I knew him 
ready to succor " the fatherless and the widow 
in their affliction, and keeping himself unspotted 
before the world ; " and my heart was forced to 
acknowledge, that "religion undefiled " dwelt in 
his breast ; that since the days when angels came 
down and conversed with men, goodness ap- 
peared not on the earth in a more fascinating 
guise. I was nurtured in a different belief; I 
was only a denizen of his country ; yet, till I 
knew him, I comprehended not the impassioned 
truthfulness of that passage, " Jonathan loved 
David as his own soul." It lessened not the 
reverence I had conceived for his character, to 
discover that he was identified in faith with a 
body of men who were connected with my 
earliest impressions of whatever was splendid in 
talents, liberal in politics, or amiable in private 
life : I mean the Remonstrant Synod of Ulster, 
the men who in their own persons nobly and 
successfully vindicated the rights of conscience, 
and who, id the most trying times, "stood for 
the right and the region," when the smiles of 
power would have rewarded a different course. 



MEMOIR. 19 

I am deeply sensible of the feebleness of this 
sketch, and its worthlessness to the end designed. 
Had I the requisite ability to portray Mr. Ingalls' 
character as it deserved, I would consider any 
amount of labor, for that purpose, well employed. 
The homage now paid to his talents and virtues, 
and the efforts being made to secure them a 
durable monument, by his former associates, show 
the feelings with which his memory is cherished. 
Such a memory as he bequeathed us, wets the 
eye and sweetens the heart ; and most sincerely 
do I rejoice, that the task of embalming it has 
been confided to the hands of one who has 
reached so high a place in the republic of letters. 
I am, respected sir, 
Your ob't servant, 

Edward Conigland. 

The writer of this cannot forbear here to break 
the thread of the narrative, to bestow his hearty 
commendation on literary associations of young 
men in large cities. They are, he believes, pro- 
ductive of untold good. They have their dangers, 
of running into form and superficial wordiness, 
quibbling and pretension ; but the good, under 
all circumstances, overbalances the evil. Intel- 
lect is quickened, investigation is stimulated, 
habits are formed of ease and fluency of speech 



20 MEMOIR. 

before a multitude, and no mean preparation is 
often made in these juvenile assemblies, for in- 
fluence and efficiency in the business of after 
life. The young learn to discuss with candor 
and fairness, the principal subjects which must 
ever divide the opinions and suffrages of man- 
kind. 

The sphere of life which he had chosen for 
himself was that of a merchant, and he accord- 
ingly became a clerk in a dry goods store, where 
he continued for two years, giving his employer 
the fullest satisfaction. It is a pursuit to which 
he was well fitted, and one which he was calcu- 
lated to adorn. There was in him, as it seemed, 
by nature, an absolute and spontaneous integrity, 
which, after all, is the only sure foundation for 
lasting success. And it is one of the regrets, 
which his early removal causes in the minds of 
his friends, that he was not spared to contribute 
his share to adorn and redeem a profession, which 
has, of late years, been subjected to so much re- 
proach. 

The idea has been gaining ground, for some 
years, in the confusion and revolutions of mer- 
cantile affairs, that strict integrity in a merchant, 
so far from promoting his success, is a positive 
obstruction to his prosperity. There is so much 
underhand management in every channel of trade, 



MEMOIR. 21 

that he who conducts his business on the princi- 
ples of plain honesty, will be ruined, or at least, 
left behind in the race, by the unscrupulous and 
unprincipled. If this be the fact, then no Chris- 
tian ought ever to place a son in a situation 
where he is exposed to such moral corruption. 
But the proposition is incredible, and refutes it- 
self. Trade cannot be pursued, in this age, with- 
out credit. The precious metals, and even bank 
notes, are not the only bases of exchange, are 
not the only representatives of value. Personal 
character is always taken into view in every 
transaction. It is always considered whether 
there is the disposition, as well as the ability, to 
fulfil a contract ; and it is absurd to say, that he 
who is known to want the disposition, while he 
has the ability, stands on as good ground, as he 
who is known to have both the ability and the 
disposition. Character is capital, and the want 
of it is the greatest disqualification for mercantile 
life. If trade be, as it is represented, inevitable 
ruin to integrity, then the friends of the subject 
of this notice have reason to be thankful that he 
was so early taken away, that his soul passed 
into the spiritual world, unstained by the pollu- 
tion which cleaves to the employment of buying 
and selling. 

But whatever are the perils of mercantile life, 



22 MEMOIR. 

it was ordained that our young friend should 
never know them. He did not quite reach the 
age of majority. After remaining two years in 
the employment we have mentioned above, he 
obtained a situation as clerk in an insurance office 
in Wall-street, where he remained till the ap- 
pearance of that fatal malady which brought 
him to an untimely grave. 

There must have been in his constitution a 
strong predisposition to pulmonary disease. His 
form indicated it, and there was in his manner a 
pensive gentleness, which physiologists have re- 
marked as generally characteristic of the early 
victim of tubercular consumption. It seemed, 
moreover, to be finally developed without any 
exciting cause. As if in anticipation of the 
shortness of his time, his character, before re- 
markably mature, from the first hour of his sick- 
ness, seqms to have developed and ripened apace ; 
and what is often the work of a long life, was 
concentrated into a few months — a preparation 
for new and higher scenes. It is not to be un- 
derstood by this, that the graces of soul, which 
he then exhibited, began to exist at that period, 
or that religion and duty were then new and 
strange ideas. They had been forming and 
brightening in silence for years. They had blos- 
somed in that sacred circle, where all that is good 



MEMOIR. 23 

in us originates, the sanctuary of home. He 
had tasted of its sorrows and its joys. He 
had there found endearing objects of his affec- 
tions and his sympathies, sufficient employment 
for his active energies, and amusement for his 
leisure hours. He was thus saved, by his do- 
mestic attachments, from other temptations which 
assail the unfortunate youth, whose home has no 
attractions, or who has himself no preference for 
the society of mother and sisters, over the heart- 
less companionship of the thoughtless, the idle, 
or the profligate. Sickness merely brought out 
and perfected what was in him before. Such a 
decline and such a death, could not have followed 
a heedless or an ill spent life. The sad tidings 
of incurable disease, the cold grasp of inevitable 
death, would have struck with consternation any 
heart which was not sustained by the testimony 
of a good conscience. 

The realities to which death must introduce 
us, were not new subjects of thought to him. 
He could, therefore, contemplate them calmly 
and unmoved ; and it may truly be said, that 
young as he was, he looked on the great event 
which was approaching with more composure, 
though it was to translate him to worlds un- 
known, than those could do, who were merely to 
lose for a short time, a companion of their earth- 
ly pilgrimage. 



24 MEMOIR. 

The writer of this has been favored with a 
detailed account of his sickness and death, from 
his physician, which is here given nearly in his 
own words. This document is most important 
to the present purpose, as it conveys a lively 
transcript of the impression made by his whole 
character, on one placed in the best possible situ- 
ation to observe it. As by a modern invention, 
the human countenance is made to create its own 
image, unerring and exact, so the intimacy of the 
family physician, creates in his mind a moral 
image of the person, daily and hourly subjected 
to his observation, as nearly corresponding to the 
original as any human estimate can make it. 
The reader of this narrative will perceive, from 
the first, that an impression was made by this 
young person, of marked mental and moral supe- 
riority. There is in it evidently a spontaneous 
and unstudied tribute to rare natural endowment, 
and to a maturity of mind and character quite as 
uncommon. Wherever he went, as far as the 
writer can learn, he made the same impression 
on arl who became acquainted with his char- 
acter. 

New -York, March, 1845. 
Rev. and dear. Sir : 

It is with much gratification that I have 
learned from Mr. Ingalls that you have consented 



MEMOIR. 25 

to draw up a biographical sketch of his deceased 
son Henry. The publication of his manuscripts 
has been a subject of much interest to me ever 
since his death ; and now that it is about being ac- 
complished, a sketch of his short life, so pure, so 
holy, so heavenly-minded as it was, to accompany 
it, is a circumstance, to me, peculiarly gratifying. 
Mr. Ingalls has requested me to transmit to you 
such incidents of his life and traits of his charac- 
ter, as I may have been familiar with during 
the six years of my professional acquaintance 
with his family, hoping that it may be of some 
assistance to you in the prosecution of your work ; 
a request I most cheerfully comply with. 

It was in the summer of 1838 that I was in- 
troduced to the family of Mr. Ingalls, on the oc- 
casion of an accident happening to his youngest 
daughter. Henry at that time had not reached 
his fourteenth year ; and although slender in his 
person, and in appearance youthful, even for his 
years, presented to the eye of an observer a cast 
of character of more than ordinary interest. It 
was during this, and a temporary illness with 
which his father was afflicted, but a few weeks 
after that of his sister, (mentioned above,) that 
those peculiar features of character were observed, 
so beautifully and strikingly developed in after 
life. He was naturally taciturn, said but little, 
3 



26 MEMOIR. 

unless something of more than ordinary interest 
drew him forth; but his countenance, even at 
that early age, was so beautifully expressive of 
his feelings, that I might almost say, " words 
with him were useless." How distinctly, in my 
mind's eye, I even now behold him, as he then 
appeared to me, hanging over his father, with his 
eyes fixed upon him, (I had been letting a little 
blood from his arm,) solicitous and ready to ren- 
der the smallest assistance, and yet with feelings 
suppressed, and countenance expressive of entire 
submission ! Ah ! how strikingly, how beautifully, 
did his after life illustrate that heavenly principle ; 
" I bow in submission to the Divine will," which 
was the first remark at the commencement of his 
illness ; and he left us with it almost lingering 
upon his lips. From the period just mentioned, 
I became intimate in the family of Mr. In galls. 
The succeeding year was a period of more or less 
sickness among its members. Henry was fre- 
quently brought before my notice, and always, 
and under all circumstances, exhibited that same 
tranquil, placid cast of character — the same 
sweet smile sat upon his countenance, and a word 
of kindness fell from his lips for every one that 
approached him. It was not, however, until 
after this, that I became acquainted with his in- 
tellectual character. He was naturally, as I before 



MEMOIR. 27 

remarked, somewhat reserved in his intercourse, 
particularly with his seniors ; yet, when drawn 
forth, exhibiting a mind well furnished from our 
best authors, both ancient and modern, a know- 
ledge of the passing literature of the day, together 
with a general acquaintance with science and the 
arts, truly astonishing in one just passing from 
school-boy days. As each year of my acquaint- 
ance with him elapsed, my interest in this dear 
youth increased. I found him a close student, 
especially bent upon mental improvement, and the 
cultivation of every virtuous principle that could 
adorn the mind or ennoble our race ; that could 
fit him for usefulness here, or happiness hereafter. 
In addition to the more solid branches of educa- 
tion, his taste for music and drawing was cer- 
tainly very remarkable. In the former he was 
entirely self-taught, yet his performance on the 
piano and flute was highly creditable to himself 
and gratifying to his friends. Oh ! sir, never, I 
think, was seen a happier family than that of 
your friend, before death entered its sacred circle. 
I have often watched them, as they, together with 
their excellent father, were surrounding the piano 
of an evening, joining in one of the popular airs 
of the day ; and the thought not unfrequently 
pressed upon my mind, how dire would be the 
blow, should the hand of death be ever raised to 



28 MEMOIR. 

sever the ties that bind this affectionate, happy 
group together, — a foreboding, alas, too soon to be 
realized. They lived for each other ; and it was 
here that the character of Henry shone forth with 
peculiar lustre — it was here that even his beau- 
tiful adornments of mind, his accomplishments 
of person, were thrown into the shade. Never, 
I believe, did he feel happier than when admin- 
istering to the comforts or pleasures of his beloved 
parents and sisters, — this was his ruling passion, 
and it was "strong even in death." "I did 
hope," said he, a little before his death, " I 
did hope to be able to administer to their com- 
forts (alluding to his parents) in their old age, 
they have done so much for me, — but God's will 
be done." 

He seemed to possess feelings of unbounded 
benevolence : — in his every suggestion, there ap- 
peared something for the benefit of some of the 
human family; and I think I may say, without 
hesitation, I never, in all my walks, knew one so 
entirely free from the form or appearance of any 
thing like selfishness. He seemed to breathe a 
spirit of universal philanthropy. I have thought 
it somewhat remarkable, that in the sickness 
occurring at various times in the family of Mr. 
Ingalls, I never had had my attention called to 
Henry, until six months before his death. So 



MEMOIR. 29 

perfect had his health been, that I think I have 
since heard his father say, that never, since his 
infancy, had it been necessary to call for him a 
physician. During the year preceding his death, 
I had seen but comparatively little of him ; he 
being engaged during the day in his clerkship, 
and opportunities of meeting in the evening had 
not been frequent, so that any other idea than 
that of his being in perfect health, never once 
entered my mind ; neither had any thing been 
observed by his family, until a little more than 
six months before his death ; so silently and se- 
cretly had the destroyer done his work. It was 
in the early part of November, that he called on 
me one morning to get something for his cough, 
which was only in compliance with his father's 
wishes, as he said it only troubled him in the 
morning. His appearance gave me no uneasiness, 
and he assured me, that he otherwise felt quite 
well. I gave him a remedy, and after a few vis- 
its, he said it had left him, and he felt in perfect 
health. The thing passed from my mind, until 
the latter part of December, when accidentally 
meeting him one day at his house, he mentioned 
he had within a few days become very weak. 
This symptom greatly alarmed me, and I imme- 
diately took him under medical treatment. Re- 
luctantly he consented to give up his business for 



30 MEMOIR. 

a few days ; a duty, alas, to which he never re- 
turned. A few weeks' closer investigation of his 
disease, still further excited alarm, inducing the 
fear, that it was of much longer standing than at 
first was apprehended. At this period, I thought 

proper to call in to my aid Dr. J. M. S , a 

gentleman who has for the last fifteen years 
held the chair of the theory and practice of me- 
dicine in the medical college of our city ; and 
who is considered inferior to none among us in 
the treatment of this particular disease. Our 
united opinion was, that there was no decided 
disease of the lungs, although a strong predispo- 
sition that way. A course of treatment was pro- 
posed, from which, should no relief be obtained, 
it was agreed to seek another climate. The pro- 
posed time of a fortnight rapidly passed round, 
but brought with it no relief, although there ap- 
peared no aggravation of the unfavorable symp- 
toms, and we lost no time in making preparations 
for our departure. Savannah, and from thence 
to the Floridas, for various reasons, had been se- 
lected as our place of refuge from the dreaded 
onset. Accordingly, we took passage on board 
the brig Exact, bound for Savannah. Our dear 
invalid bore the fatigues incidental to leaving 
home, and a large circle of friends, with that 
composure and serenity of mind, so peculiarly 



MEMOIR. 



31 



his own ; and indeed seemed better, and more 
cheerful ; so that, full of hope, on the morning of 
the seventh of February, we set out on our jour- 
ney to the sunny south. The day was remark- 
ably fine for the season, and quite calm ; we 
passed slowly down the river, and towards night 
anchored in the lower bay, intending not to put 
to sea until morning. How often, since that 
period, has my mind reverted to this memorable 
evening ! I know of no time, from the first dawn 
of his disease, when my hopes were so high ; we 
were gathered together in the cabin, — our dear 
Henry was so much himself; his cough through 
the day had been so trifling ; his sweet smile 
was playing on his countenance, while he talked 
cheerfully, looking forward to a return, with 
health regained, to his " sweet home," and circle 
of kind friends. The hour was late, and we be- 
gan to think of retiring. It was just then that 
Henry quietly took up a flute that had been lay- 
ing near him, and placing it to his lips, began, 
with peculiar sweetness, the Scottish air of " Ye 
banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." It was a little 
incident, my dear sir ; but now, while I am wri- 
ting, methinks I can almost hear the notes of 
that evening floating across the air ; there seemed 
something unearthly in the sounds. They were 
the last he ever played. Our passage was full of 



32 MEMOIR. 

hope and fear : the first two days were very 
rough ; the next was pleasant, and we all felt 
much better, while the appetite of our invalid re- 
turned, and he seemed very comfortable. The 
next day was the Sabbath, and a delightful day 
indeed it proved to us. Henry sat up nearly the 
whole day ; he walked the deck, and really 
seemed to enjoy himself. During the day, he 
expressed a desire to hear read one of his pas- 
tor's (Dr. Dewey's) sermons. I accordingly chose, 
at his request, " Religion as the great sentiment 
of Life." He listened very attentively to the 
words of exhortation, occasionally dropping such 
remarks as the subject suggested. In the after- 
noon he again expressed a wish to hear another 
of these affectionate discourses. It seemed to 
bring home very near to him, and all those he 
most tenderly loved. Thus passed our first Sab- 
bath on the ocean ; it was a day long to be re- 
membered, and with grateful hearts did we retire 
to our rest that night, thankful to our Heavenly 
Parent that we were allowed to indulge even 
in hope. Our voyage was considered, on the 
whole, a remarkably fine one ; and on the after- 
noon of the sixth day from our leaving Sandy 
Hook, we arrived safely at Savannah. 

We disembarked on the evening of the 13th 
of February ; and having obtained comfortable 



MEMOIR. 33 

lodgings, were all soon enjoying a refreshing 
sleep. Hitherto, every thing seemed to favor us 
with regard to the restoration of our beloved 
Henry to health ; our voyage had been a pleasant 
one, remarkably so for the season ; he had been 
benefited by it ; and now we were favored by a 
continuance of fine weather, finer than it gener- 
ally is at this season, even in this charming 
region. The morning after our arrival, the sun 
rose upon one of the most delightful days ever 
witnessed ; the sweet south wind was wafted in 
upon us as we sat by the open window, every 
breath of which seemed to revive my patient, 
who had now become so dear to me, that every 
breath he drew was watched with the deepest 
interest. During the day, he took a long ride, 
came back much refreshed, and after enjoying a 
short sleep, arose and dined with us at the public 
table ; during the afternoon, enjoyed the visits of 
several friends, to whom we had letters, and re- 
tired early, evidently much improved. It was at 
this time, after all was quiet, that his excellent 
father put to me the question, (with a depth of 
interest that may be conceived, but not de- 
scribed,) " whether, indeed, he might not now 
indulge a hope ? " To which I was forced to 
reply, "a hope, but that is all." Henry's disease, 
from the first, had appeared to Dr. S and 



34 MEMOIR. 

myself, thus: a small spot (not probably larger 
than a dollar) of tuberculous deposite, was evi- 
dently forming in the superior portion of the left 
lung ; our object was to prevent its extension, as 
well as its softening into matter, from which 
would probably be formed an abscess, a state of 
things which would immediately extinguish all 
hope. It was a case in which medicine could 
do but little; my principal dependence was an 
avoidance of all exciting causes, exercise in the 
open air, diet, &c. Two months had now passed 
by, and yet there appeared no increase of the 
disease ; and thus far, room was left for hope. 
Among the letters w r e were favored with, to 
friends at Savannah, was one from Henry's much- 
loved pastor, Dr. Dewey, to the Rev. Mr. Clapp, 
pastor of the Unitarian congregation of that place. 
To this gentleman, I feel much indebted for his 
many acts of kindness to me, personally, as well 
as his unremitting attentions to my patient, dur- 
ing the whole of his residence at Savannah. 
His intercourse with him was of such a charac- 
ter, as to enable him to furnish much that will 
be of value to you, I have no doubt, in the 
prosecution of your work. Through Mr. Clapp, 
I was, at my request, made acquainted with Dr. 
A , a valued friend with whom I was de- 
sirous of consulting ; and as my absence from 



MEMOIR. 35 

home could not be continued beyond a few 
weeks , I was solicitous to leave him the charge 
of my patient. In conjunction with him again, 
before my departure, a critical examination was 
made of the state of his chest. I was gratified 
to find the disease still very circumscribed, hav- 
ing made no progress within now nearly three 
months, and that his general health had much 
improved. But, ah ! what a treacherous disease 
is consumption ; delaying oftentimes in its pro- 
gress, just long enough to allow us to build up 
our hopes, and then hurrying its victim with rapid 
strides to the close of life, as if more than to 
make up for the momentary delay ! I was happy 

to find in Dr. A , an entire concurrence of 

opinion as to the plan of treatment to be pursued. 
I accordingly made my preparations to return 

homeward, having agreed with Dr. A , that 

our patient was to remain at Savannah, or pass 
on to Florida, according as his health, or the 
state of the weather, might render it desirable. 

The season, however, was so far advanced, 
and there being a prospect of the mild weather's 
continuance, it was thought highly probable that 
Savannah would be the permanent place of so- 
journ, until his return north. Accordingly, it 
became necessary to remove our lodgings from 
the public house to a more retired location ; and 



36 MEMOIR. 

here we were singularly fortunate in procuring 
accommodations in a private family, whose kind- 
ness and attentions to our invalid during his 
whole stay at Savannah were unremitting ; they 
were remembered by him as long as life lasted ; 
and after his return home were often referred to 
with feelings of the warmest gratitude. 

Indeed, the kind attentions of many friends 
at Savannah call forth, even at this day, our 
best thanks. Should any of them be so situated 
as to need the acts of kindness they extended to 
our invalid, I trust they may meet with those 
who will as deeply sympathize with them, as 
they did with us ; and then, and only then, can 
they fully appreciate our feelings of thankful- 
ness. 

On the 17th of February, I bade adieu to my 
friends and my dear patient, with whom now for 
weeks I had been continually in the closest con- 
tact, and with whom I thought it highly proba- 
ble I might again never meet on this side the 
grave. I shall never forget his farewell, his 
affecting farewell. I can now see his bright 
eyes suffused with tears, can feel his feeble arms 
thrown about my neck : he uttered not a word — 
his countenance bespoke all he felt. 

I returned home by land, and shortly after 
my arrival received from him a letter stating, 



MEMOIR. 37 

very clearly, that he felt himself daily increasing 
in strength ; that he rode out, continually enjoy- 
ing the society of the kind friends he had met 
with there. This continued until the early part 
of April, when it became very evident, from 
his handwriting, that there was a decrease of 
strength. It became tremulous, instead of the 
usually bold and manly style natural to him. I 
felt that my worst fears were now about to be 
realized, apprehending that the loss of strength 
and nerve could arise from no other cause than 
the formation of the much dreaded abscess. 
Soon after I received a communication from Dr. 
A., confirming the fact. I immediately wrote to 
Mr. Ingalls, urging his instant return • this he 
did by easy journeys by land, during which you 
had an opportunity of seeing him when passing 
through your city. And here let me pause a 
moment in my narrative to remark, that the resi- 
dence of Henry at Savannah formed an interest- 
ing period of his life, and especially showed 
forth in a clearer light than any former period 
the religious state of his mind ; and this will be 
furnished you by our mutual friend, the Rev. 
Mr. Clapp. I might also remark here, that he 
was, in my view, most conscientiously attached 
to his particular faith, yet breathing at all times 
a most catholic spirit. I might relate a little in- 



38 MEMOIR. 

cident by way of illustration during our journey. 
We had of course been constantly in close contact, 
yet separated in our morning and evening devo- 
tions ; this appeared to me wrong ; that two im- 
mortal beings, bound to the same eternal world, 
could not worship the great Author of their being 
in unison, seemed to me an absurdity. One morn- 
ing, my book of Common Prayer laid on the 
table, and I observed he had but a few minutes 
before been reading it. I asked him if he were 
familiar with the prayers ; he said he was, and 
thought them very beautiful. And could you, I 
remarked, join with me in the morning and 
evening family prayers, which you doubtless have 
looked over ? " With pleasure," he replied, " al- 
though I might mentally put a different con- 
struction on certain expressions from what you 
would." It was enough — from that morning be- 
gan our united prayers to the Giver of all good, 
and I believe were never once omitted while we 
remained together. 

It was at this point of his sad progress toward 
the tomb, that he became known to the writer of 
this memoir. His sister, younger than himself, 
came as far as Baltimore to meet him on his re- 
turn from the south, and was my guest till his 
arrival. She had evidently no idea of his des- 



MEMOIR. 39 

perate condition, and expected to see him reno- 
vated in strength, or at least in no worse condi- 
tion than when he went from home. She daily- 
spoke of her anticipated pleasure in seeing him 
comparatively well. Forming my own anticipa- 
tions by hers, I too expected to see him, if not 
recovered, yet restored to comparative health. 

I had not seen him more than once since boy- 
hood, and I recollected him rather as a sedate, 
reflective, retiring child, than as a young man, 
mature in mind, settled in character, and full 
grown in stature. The first intimation we had 
of his approach, was the present of a box of 
■strawberries, sent us just at evening, by him, on 
his arrival in the steamboat from Norfolk. This 
delicious fruit was not then ripe in our latitude. 
From this, I augured favorably as to the condition 
of his health. To me, it did not seem possible 
that any one could be so thoughtful of others, 
who was himself an invalid, and in the last 
stages of weakness and decline. It was all ex- 
plained, however, when I became acquainted 
with his character. 

I attended his sister to the hotel, with raised, 
and rather pleasant anticipations. He had re- 
tired to his room, though not to rest. He first 
saw his sister alone. I was soon sent for, and 
followed to his room. It was a scene which I 



40 MEMOIR. 

shall never forget. The door was opened, — 
and a glance revealed all. He was sitting up, 
and rose with difficulty to receive me, — the very- 
picture of consumption, pale, thin, weak, and 
panting for breath ; yet there was in his bearing, 
a calmness, a dignity, a resigned meekness of 
expression, which awed, at the same time they 
touched the feelings. He evidently labored to do 
his best, in order to mitigate, if possible, the 
shock which his condition was manifestly giving 
a sister whom he tenderly loved, and from whom 
he had never perhaps before been so long sepa- 
rated, since they had played together around 
their mother's knee. What a withering of hope 
was there ! an only son, meeting his eldest 
sister, both in the very bloom of life, bearing in 
every limb and feature the sad evidence that he 
would soon be her companion no more ! The 
first- moral trait which struck me at this inter- 
view, was an entire forgetfulness of himself, 
and solicitude for others. There was a total 
absence of that anxiety for his personal com- 
forts, which long sickness too often produces. 
The claims of indisposition were instantly 
waived, to give place to those of courtesy, and 
the drooping invalid was the last to be consid- 
ered. 

I had seen many cases of consumption ; and 



MEMOIR. 41 

my eye, by long practice, had become nearly un- 
erring in detecting its presence, and foreseeing its 
issue. The whole future came up in a mo- 
ment before my mind. That marble brow had 
already assumed its last whiteness ; those glassy, 
earnest eyes, must soon look their last ; those 
emaciated hands were soon to rest from their 
appointed task ; soon that youthful form will be 
seen no more ! Such thoughts, only infinitely 
more bitter, seemed to occupy the mind of my 
companion. Still, she bore the interview with 
admirable fortitude, I may say with cheerfulness, 
and gave no external sign of the agony she suf- 
fered within. In compassion to his weakness 
and weariness, we made our interview short. 
We closed the door after us, and paced the long, 
silent passage together, without speaking a word. 
The first attempt to speak brought with it a 
flood of tears. " It will kill my father, it will 
kill my father. He never can be well ; what 
will become of us?" I could not conscientiously 
utter a syllable of hope, for I saw there was 
none, and I therefore suffered her grief to find 
its natural relief. 

The next day he came to my house, and there, 

in the family circle, I became fully acquainted 

with the truly Christian graces of his mind and 

character. He seemed to me, on more intimate 

4 



42 MEMOIR. 

knowledge, to be a person of rare natural tem- 
perament and moral constitution. He appeared 
to have never had anything to unlearn, never to 
have contracted any of those obliquities, which 
the young are too apt to incur in their intercourse 
with a corrupted world. He seemed to be good 
without effort, because the right, the just, the 
true and the generous, was the first and only 
thought that was suggested to his mind. Older 
persons looked on him Avith astonishment, as 
having, at the very commencement of his career, 
made attainments in excellence which usually 
come only with a long life of religious experi- 
ence. He was especially free from one of the 
most besetting sins of the young of this country 
and this age, irreverence, want of respect for 
his elders. It was a precept of the Mosaic dis- 
pensation, " Thou shalt rise up before the hoary 
head, and honor the face of the old man, and 
fear thy God." It was a precept too, which had 
a more important bearing on individual character 
and the welfare of society, than may, at first 
sight, appear. Reverence always flows from a 
sound mind and a good heart. Wherever it is 
absent, there is something wanting, or something 
wrong. The want of this disposition is a bad 
indication every way ; it is too often the incipi- 
ent stage of a general recklessness. It is signifi- 



MEMOIR. 43 

cant to observe the connection in which respect 
for the aged is placed with piety to God ; " Thou 
shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honor 
the face of the old man, and fear thy God" in- 
timating that these two duties are generally 
joined together, either in performance or neglect. 
And certainly, the want of a disposition to 
venerate what is venerable in man, will lead to 
want of reverence to God. I know not why it 
is, but there is evidently a decline of proper re- 
spect in the young for their elders, in this coun- 
try ; and this same spirit of irreverence yearly 
blights the prospects of multitudes. It early 
leads them to despise the restraints of law and 
order, set at defiance the moral sense of the com- 
munity, and thus make shipwreck of their pros- 
pects in the very morning of life. 

At the greatest possible distance from this un- 
promising disposition, was the character of our 
young friend. I doubt if his most intimate com- 
panions can recollect his ever indulging in a sneer. 
His heart was too good, his feelings too kind and 
candid, to allow him to pour contempt on the 
weaknesses, or even the vices, of erring, suffer- 
ing humanity. He had that divine charity 
"which thinketh no evil." 

There was, most obvious to every observer, 
another trait in the character of our young friend, 



44 MEMOIR. 

nearly allied to that of which I have just spoken, 
— a hearty earnestness. We too often find the 
young, at a very early period, completely initi- 
ated into the manners of artificial society ; already 
accustomed to measure every word and action by 
considerations of expediency. Those who have 
intercourse with them, are compelled at once to 
assume the same caution, which they would use 
were they conversing with a diplomatist. This 
is called, and often boasted of, as knowledge of 
the world. It may be, but it is a knowledge of 
the world in the worst sense ; a knowledge of 
its vices, which it is much better to be without. 
It is a knowledge, which is possessed in its per- 
fection by the very worst classes of society ; and 
is too often, itself, the indication of deep de- 
pravity. However it may be called knowledge, 
it is not wisdom, unless it be that wisdom, which 
is condemned by the Apostle, as " earthly, sen- 
sual, devilish." Of all species of wisdom, it is 
the most unprofitable ; it helps no one, but 
rather, destroys confidence, and puts every one 
upon his guard, lest he be deceived and over- 
reached by it. It precludes at once all genuine 
and hearty communion. It creates an uncom- 
fortable feeling of insecurity. It tends to isolate 
each individual, and destroy, at the outset, all the 
pleasures of society. 



MEMOIR. 45 

There is another wisdom, which is infinitely 
better ; the wisdom which cometh from above, 
which is " pure, peaceable, gentle," and without 
disguise. This is the wisdom which opens all 
hearts, instead of shutting them up ; which wins 
its way without effort, where cunning is resisted ; 
which finds itself at home and at ease with those 
whose friendship is most valuable, and whose 
society is most desirable. 

It was this quality in our young friend, which, 
perhaps, more than any other, made him such a 
universal favorite. It is so refreshing to meet 
with an unsophisticated heart, in the dusty, worn 
and weary paths of this life, — it is like a foun- 
tain in a desert, like verdure in the sands. It 
was impossible to approach him without feeling 
— " here we have a true man, an Israelite in- 
deed, in whom is no guile ; " one whose pur- 
poses are good, whose words are sincere, whose 
feelings need no disguise. 

Such a trait of character as this, fitted him for 
eminent success in life. He would have had the 
very first requisite for advancement, the confi- 
dence and best wishes of good men. This, to a 
young man, is a tower of strength. He builds 
his house upon a rock, and it will stand. The 
cunning and the false have never a secure foun- 
dation ; they build upon the sand, and if so, the 
proudest structure is ever tottering to its fall. 



46 MEMOIR. 

As a counterpart to this perfect transparency 
of character, there was in him a true generosity 
of heart. The finest natures are ever most liable 
to be perverted by ambition. The love of excel- 
lence is always strongly developed in^hose who 
have the capacities for excelling. While it is 
restricted to its legitimate object, an aspiration to 
what is noble and praiseworthy, it produces noth- 
ing but good. But it is capable of being per- 
verted into emulation, jealousy, envy, detraction, 
and then it exerts the worst influence upon the 
character. It immediately disturbs the harmony 
of social life. " There arose a strife among them, 
which of them should be the greatest." Strife 
is ever the immediate fruit of the degeneracy of 
the love of excellence into mere ambition. We 
too often see the young poisoned by this perver- 
sion, at a very early period of life. It is this se- 
cret feeling of emulation, which is at the bottom 
of that love of scandal and detraction, which is 
such a disgrace to a Christian community. The 
vices, the follies or the misfortunes of others, 
answer the same purpose as our own virtues, tal- 
ents or success, in deciding the all-important 
question, " which shall be the greatest." It is 
utterly impossible for a person, possessing this 
spirit, to be fair and candid. The whole ten- 
dency of his conversation will be, to display what 



MEMOIR. 47 

he possesses, and indicate what other people want. 
Accordingly, we too often find the young so con- 
taminated with this feeling, that all generosity 
and candor of disposition are eaten out by a 
reckless spirit of ridicule and detraction. To this 
heartless propensity nothing is sacred. The 
weaknesses, the sorrows, the misfortunes, and 
even the vices of humanity, are the common sub- 
jects of merriment or contempt. Such is the uni- 
versal imperfection of the human character and 
condition, that those who choose to indulge this 
disposition to ill nature, can never long want em- 
ployment. No lot, no character, is perfect ; and 
if the observer fixes his regard alone on what is 
displeasing, or censurable, he will, sooner or later, 
take pleasure in noticing nothing else. The 
habit of ridicule and detraction will increase on 
him by indulgence, till at length his whole char- 
acter will become sour and misanthropic. 

The young, in their desire for amusement, are 
not aware of the tendency of such unjust and 
impolitic conduct. They are not aware, that it 
is impossible to regard with respect, or treat with 
kindness, those whom we are accustomed to as- 
sociate with low and degrading ideas. Their 
manners will become affected by their sentiments, 
and they will become unfeeling, disrespectful, 
and insolent to all. No trait of character is more 



48 MEMOIR. 

deservedly odious than this. The very bearing 
of such a person is a perpetual defiance to soci- 
ety, and is felt, especially by the defenceless and 
the dependent, as a continual insult. It is utterly 
impossible for a young man to prosper and be 
happy under such a load of odium as is sure to 
accumulate upon the insolent and presumptuous. 
Instead of lending him aid, there will be an unan- 
imous desire to see him put down. His enemies 
will be nearly as numerous as his acquaintance ; 
and he who has no friends, must finally come to 
nothing. 

It would be difficult to find a young man who 
was more opposite to all this, than our young 
friend. I question whether he was ever heard to 
depreciate a rival, or seen to take pleasure in de- 
tailing the weaknesses or the vices of a human 
being. The consequence of these characteristics 
was, that wherever he went, he immediately con- 
ciliated the esteem and won the favor of all. All 
who became acquainted with him, felt them- 
selves at home, in the society of one whom they 
could love as a friend and trust as a brother. 

I should leave his social character imperfect, 
were I to omit to speak of his manners. These 
were dignified, gentle, considerate, obliging. 
They were not the result of the study of artificial 
rules, nor the promptings of vanity, nor the cal- 



MEMOIR. 49 

dilations of selfishness. They were the free and 
spontaneous expression of his whole character. 
He always acted with propriety, because he 
always felt right. He treated others with respect, 
because he felt respect for them. He forbore to 
wound the sensibilities of any, because he could 
not do so without inflicting greater pain upon his 
own. He sacrificed his own convenience to that 
of others, because it gave him greater pleasure to 
please others than to please himself. He was 
truly courteous, not in empty compliments, which 
are merely lip service, but in that deference, 
which is really more flattering than any device of 
mere words. He made you feel, that good man- 
ners are nothing more than Christianity carried 
into little things, and made practical in the com- 
mon intercourse of every day. It is merely to 
love our neighbors as ourselves. 

Bat the good manners which proceed from true 
Christianity, have greatly the advantage of those 
which are dictated by policy, pride, or artificial 
rules. They are universal, " without partiality 
and without hypocrisy." The good manners of 
the worldly, which are studied as an accomplish- 
ment, and practised as an art, have reference only 
to equals or superiors. Inferiors are not taken 
into consideration. This very fact demonstrates, 
that they have their root in selfishness, and are 



50 MEMOIR. 

dictated, not by a sense of duty, nor a feeling of 
benevolence, nor yet a sentiment of justice, but 
a desire to stand well with those who can pro- 
mote or obstruct our interests. The proficient 
in a merely worldly good breeding, is often totally 
forgetful, that those who are his inferiors, or de- 
pendents, have feelings as well as himself. To 
them he is often inconsiderate, cruel and oppres- 
sive. But that to him is no breach of good man- 
ners, for he hardly puts them in the category of 
humanity. But how infinitely short does this 
come of the requisitions of Christianity ! Good 
manners, in the worldly sense of the term, have 
been possessed by some of the greatest profli- 
gates the world has ever seen. In that sense, 
they have been defined to be, " The art of pleas- 
ing." And does not this very definition show 
that it has self at the bottom of it ? The art of 
pleasing whom ? Those whose friendship may 
be of any service to us, or whose resentment may 
injure us. Their feelings must be respected, their 
favor must be won. But are not those whom 
the world places below us, possessed of human 
feelings too ? Is not their happiness to be con- 
sulted, as well as that of those who are able to 
take care of themselves ? In the Christian sense 
of the term, manners comprehend our whole in- 
tercourse with our fellow men, with all whose 



MEMOIR. 51 

happiness is affected by our bearing and conduct ; 
and the true Christian will be more careful of 
the feelings of those below than those above him ; 
they can vindicate their rights, while the other 
must submit in silence. Every honorable feel- 
ing in the human heart revolts at taking advan- 
tage of the weak and defenceless ; yet the very 
definition of good manners, makes them to be, 
the art of pleasing those whose good will may 
be of service to us, while it overlooks entirely 
the claims of those who stand most in need of 
our courtesy and forbearance. 

There is no word in the English language 
more perverted than the word gentleman. It 
ought to be a good word, and comprehend every 
thing that is honorable in principle, that is just 
in sentiment, that is humane in feeling, that is 
kind and courteous in conduct. As it is, it has 
become almost an epithet of contempt, for it is 
consistent with every thing mean and despicable. 
In some latitudes, it means a well dressed man, 
who has nothing to do. In others, it means a 
man who will do everything that is immoral, 
and then murder the man who tells him of it. 
In all latitudes, it is consistent with indulgence 
in the grossest vices, and the most palpable injus- 
tice. And well it may be ; for good manners 
are defined to be, the art of pleasing our supe- 
riors. 



52 MEMOIR. 

The subject of our memoir was a gentleman, 
in the true sense of the term. He was a gentle- 
man, because he was a Christian ; not because 
he had trained himself to the arts of pleasing, but 
because he had a refined soul ; not because he 
had studied Chesterfield, but because he had stu- 
died his bible. He was courteous to all ; not 
more from respect to himself, than from respect 
to human nature in its lowliest form. What in 
others is too often the result of arbitrary rules, 
was in him the spontaneous promptings of a good 
heart. To him it was no effort to be kind and 
considerate. To have been otherwise, would 
have cost him more than any other sacrifice. 

Such were the traits which appeared, to the 
writer, most prominent in the character of this 
most interesting young man, during his short 
sojourn with us, on his return from the south. 

It was now May, and he had brought the 
spring with him thus far. It was deemed expe- 
dient that he should not travel faster than the 
advance of the season, or outstrip the mild breezes 
which are so soothing to the irritability of dis- 
eased lungs. But it was a sad sight to see the 
contrast between recovering nature and the in- 
valid's decline. Every day there was a greener 
shade in the fields, and a more luxuriant verdure 
on the trees ; but each day there was a deeper 



MEMOIR. 53 

paleness on the cheek, and greater feebleness in 
the step, of the object of our solicitude, on whom 
earth seemed to be smiling her last. It was a 
moving spectacle, to see him, day after day, 
while the busy and the joyous were hurrying on 
their way, buoyant with pleasure or eager with 
hope, attended by his sister, making his slow 
and toilsome excursions, trembling with feeble- 
ness, and inhaling with difficulty the balmiest 
airs that ever breathed from heaven. The doom 
of early death weighed like a stone upon the 
heart of the beholder, and the thought was forced 
upon the mind, that before the leaves which 
were then expanding had fallen, he himself would 
have been gathered to the tomb ! He was to die, 
— in the very morning of his days, one who was 
so well fitted to adorn and to enjoy life, around 
whom so many fond affections clustered, in whom 
so many hopes were centred. It was a mystery 
in the dispensations of Providence, too deep for 
human wisdom to solve ; and it sent the faith of 
the meek inquirer in speechless submission to the 
throne of " Him, who maketh clouds and thick 
darkness his pavilion round about." 

As the weather became warmer, it was thought 
advisable that he should pursue his journey 
homeward. He accordingly left the circle of 
friends whose interest he had excited, sorrowful 



54 



MEMOIR. 



to part with one so amiable, and sorrowful most 
of all with the certainty that they should see his 
face no more. He bore the journey home much 
better than could have been expected. His own 
spirits were excited and exhilarated by the warm 
welcome of his family and friends, and he seem- 
ed, for a deceitful moment, almost himself again. 
I here resume the narrative of his physician. 

" Henry returned to us on the 19th of May, 
greatly emaciated, but with more strength than 
I had expected to find. He met us all with 
his usual cheerfulness. Surrounded once more 
with all those so dear, new life seemed to be in- 
fused into him ; but, alas ! his case was totally 
hopeless : a large portion of his left lung was 
gone, while the right had already begun to sym- 
pathize. He continued to walk about the house 
and to ride out daily, but his strength gradually 
wasted. I very soon accquainted him with his 
state ; he expressed himself perfectly resigned, 
and again bowed in entire "submission to the 
Divine will." And now it was, my dear sir, that 
his character began to shine forth in all its 
beauty. 

Henry's disease, in many respects, had been 
from the first peculiar ; you are aware that in 
consumption the mind of the patient is generally 



MEMOIR. 55 

impressed by a singularly illusive view of his 
own case, and that while the disease is making 
fearful ravages, and the wasting form shows how 
rapidly he is advancing to the grave, yet no argu- 
ment will convince him of the fact ; he laughs 
at the fears of his friends, is convinced that they 
are perfectly groundless, and feels every confi- 
dence that a few days, or weeks at farthest, will 
restore him to perfect health. This was not so 
with our dear invalid. From the dawn of his 
fatal disease he knew that it was of a serious 
character, and the first impulse of his meek spirit, 
was acquiescence in the divine will ; and this view 
of his case never forsook him. Occasionally, in- 
deed, he did indulge in hope, but never so clung 
to life as to make him forget that he was a de- 
pendent being. More than once he said to me, 
" for the sake of others, I could wish my life to 
be prolonged ; but for myself, I have no other 
wish than to bow to the will of my Creator." 
Again, he was mercifully relieved from pain, and 
that distressing want of breath, so frequently an 
attendant upon this disease j he also had an un- 
usual degree of strength until almost the last. 
This we all felt to be a great kindness in our 
Heavenly Parent. His mind also was clear, not a 
cloud seemed to pass over it, and he retained so 
much of his usual cheerfulness, that his friends 



56 MEMOIR. 

continued around him, and we were thus enabled 
to enjoy his society to the last. 

When he first returned from the south, I had 
thought, from the hitherto slow progress of his 
disease, that he might continue with us through 
the summer ; he so much enjoyed his morning 
rides, and occasionally an afternoon walk, that I 
could not realize he was so soon to be taken 
away. About the middle of June, however, he 
rapidly sank ; the hot weather affected him great- 
ly. It now became evident that we were soon to 
see his face no more. Of this, he became soon 
well assured himself, and began to set his house 
in order ; he procured little mementoes for his 
sisters, and also for myself and others of his 
friends, and presented them to us with the ut- 
most composure of mind. 

During the whole of his sickness, his father or 
myself had been accustomed, at the close of the 
day, after his retirement, to read to him a portion 
of the New Testament, succeeded by a prayer. 
This exercise he always seemed greatly to enjoy. 
T would endeavor, my dear sir, to describe a 
scene that occurred at the close of one of these 
exercises. He desired his family might be called 
around him ; his affectionate heart burst forth in 
all its glow of feeling ; he raised his soul to heaven 
in a most energetic appeal for strength to be given 



MEMOIR. 57 

him in the approaching conflict with the king 
of terrors, for a blessing upon his beloved family, 
and that they might be sustained in the bereave- 
ment that they were about to meet with. The 
season was one among many, during his last days, 
that never will be forgotten. It was about this 
period that I said to him one night, " Henry, I 
want you to select some one of the promises that 
you can take with you into the eternal world." 
He seemed pleased with the thought, and said he 
would. The next day I referred to the subject. 
He replied immediately, as if he had been think- 
ing much on the matter, " Yes ! there is one 
which I think I can call my own : ' Whoso be- 
lieveth in me shall never die.'' " How beautiful ! 
and, as Dr. Dewey remarked, " nothing could be 
more appropriate." There was so much in his 
last days to cheer and comfort us, that I might 
fill pages with the various incidents connected 
therewith ; but I find I must bring my remarks 
to a close. 

Henry enjoyed, continually, the pastoral visits 
of Dr. Dewey. They were always refreshing to 
him. About this time his friend, Mr. Clapp, 
came on from Savannah : this was a new source 
of gratification to him. It was on one Sunday 
morning in June, that Dr. Dewey, Mr. Clapp 
being also present, administered to him the ordi- 
5 



58 MEMOIR. 

nance of baptism. He expressed to me his high 
satisfaction at the reception of this holy rite, and 
I thought he seemed to say, " What now wait I 
for ?" He continued to take his meals with the 
family, and to pass the day either sitting in his 
chair, or reclining on the sofa, until about ten 
days before his death. I said to him one Satur- 
day evening, " Henry, I think you had better 
not go down to-morrow, you are so feeble, and 
the exertion is greater than you can bear." 
" Yes, doctor," he replied, " I would like to meet 
them all one Sunday more at dinner." He 
wished me to be present j but I thought the 
hour would be too sacred to be intruded upon, 
even by one so intimate with them as was their 
physician. He went down and joined them at 
the table with his usual cheerfulness. It was 
the last time ; his dear father bore him back 
again to his room, in his arms, alas ! to return 
no more. 

From this time he rapidly failed ; he reclined 
the greater part of the time on his bed, his mind 
still unruffled. Many were the conversations I 
had with him on the subject of his expected 
change ; his preparation was not that of a day, 
it was that of a life ; and in a review of this life, 
his friends have every possible consolation. 

On the 2d of July, he appeared sinking all day ; 



MEMOIR. 59 

during the night, he wished me to remain with 
him, and I thought it probable he might not con- 
tinue until morning ; he, however, was more 
comfortable than I had anticipated, and in the 
morning somewhat revived. He continued very- 
low during the day, and at night I again remained 
with him ; he slept uneasily the early part of the 
night, and about 1 A. M. he called me to his 
bedside, and asked if I thought him dying. I 
told him I thought not, but that his hour of de- 
parture was probably not far off. I asked him if 
there was any thing more he wished to commu- 
nicate ; he said, no ; all his worldly matters were 
settled. Again I begged to know of the state of 
his mind : I found it serene ; he said he felt hap- 
py. He sank again into a tranquil sleep. About 
5 A. M., again he told me he thought himself 
going ; I found it to be so, and quickly sum- 
moned the family. And here, Rev. Sir, opened 
a scene that I dare not attempt to describe. To 
each of his sisters he had a word to say, a sepa- 
rate farewell ; to his beloved father ; to his almost 
adored mother, " Be comforted, dear mother, said 
he ; " — but I will not, I dare not enter upon a 
description of this solemn hour. He again called 
me to him, and said much of kindness and affec- 
tion, which my pen refuses to trace. This scene 
much exhausted him ; he felt himself sinking 



60 MEMOIR. 

fast. And now, said he, I should like once more 
to join with you in prayer. With whom, I said, 
my dear Henry ? With my father, said he, if he 
feels able. Through the divine aid his parent 
was enabled to kneel at the bedside of his dying 
child, and, with his family around him, to com- 
mit the soul of his dear boy to that God who 
gave it. Oh ! sir, it was a solemn hour ! I have 
witnessed many death beds, but never any thing 
to equal this. We all arose from kneeling around 
him, and stood watching his dying countenance ; 
it spoke of perfect peace. Soon he fell asleep, 
to awake no more, until the trump of the great 
archangel shall awaken all to judgment. He 
spoke but a minute or two before his breath left 
him, and intimated to us that all was well. There 
was no struggle in death ; his countenance soon 
assumed that lovely, placid look, which all who 
knew him loved to look upon in his days of life 
and health. 

He remained with us for two days, as if asleep 
upon his couch. Kind and sympathizing friends 
strewed sweet flowers around him as he lay ; the 
rose, the jasmine, and the fragrant lily, emble- 
matic of his virtues, his purity of life and char- 
acter — they faded away, but he remained lovely 
in death ; and then they bore him away to his 
place of sepulture. Thus has passed away, in 



MEMOIR. 61 

the morning of life,, this interesting young man, 
so full of promise, so well fitted to adorn society, 
to benefit his fellow creatures ; — he has gone, 
but his name still lives. May his extensive cir- 
cle of young friends strive to emulate his many 
virtues ; and may his holy example be held up 
for their edification ! 

These pages, Rev. Sir, have been written 
amid a press of professional duties. I am sensi- 
ble, that I have not done the subject justice. 
With every sentiment of respect, 
I am, Rev. Sir, 

Your ob't serv't, 

Jas. D. Fitch." 

A life so beautiful, a death so calm and saintly, 
are no accidents, are not the results of a fortunate 
temperament, or a happy coincidence of external 
circumstances. Such a life, and such a death, 
could be the result of nothing short of religious 
principle. This was the secret spring which fed 
the roots of his virtues, and gave consistency, 
strength and symmetry to his whole character. 
His was no mere worldly and politic morality. 
It was not the honor which cometh from men, 
that he sought. There was an eye, that seeth 
in secret, which he was conscious was ever upon 
him, and to which he referred all his actions. 



62 MEMOIR. 

He seems early to have made, and kept the reso- 
lution, " My heart shall not reproach me, so long 
as I live." His nearest friends bear witness to 
his almost faultless conduct. The natural con- 
sequence of such a life, is a peaceful and hopeful 
death. " If our hearts condemn us not, then 
have we confidence towards God." The filial 
spirit ever rises up in an obedient heart, and the 
filial spirit is one of confidence, assurance and 
trust. 

For the last six years of his life he was an 
attendant at the church of the Messiah, under 
the pastoral care of Dr. Dewey ; and he was de- 
cidedly Unitarian in his religious opinions. He 
had been educated in a different faith j but ex- 
amination and reflection gradually changed his 
views, and made them more clear and definite, 
and finally settled them in the doctrines respect- 
ing God and Christ, and the work of salvation, 
which have been entertained by some of the 
greatest and best men who have ever borne the 
Christian name. To him, at least, these views 
were sufficient ; sufficient to secure him in the 
paths of holiness, to maintain warmth and constan- 
cy in his devotional feelings, to sustain him in every 
trial, to smooth the bed of sickness, and deprive 
death of its terror and its sting. He delighted in 
the study of the Scriptures. They were to him 



MEMOIR. 63 

a perpetual source of light and comfort. He was, 
for a long time, a teacher in the Sunday school 
attached to the church of the Messiah ; and he 
never spared himself in his exertions for the good 
of others. It is testified of him, by one who 
knew him best, " If there was any one trait in 
Henry's character stronger than another, it seems 
to me that it was the great desire he felt for the 
improvement in knowledge and virtue of all 
classes of men. His life was one of great purity 
in thought, word and deed. I look back upon 
it with wonder and admiration. I can see much 
in it worthy of imitation ; and nothing, in a moral 
point of view, that calls up the slightest unpleas- 
ant recollection. He seemed to possess a soul 
ever alive to virtue and happiness. His real en- 
joyments in life have been, I think more than 
those of most men who live to threescore years 
and ten. He used the world without abusing 
it ; and consequently, in every thing he did, and 
in every situation, he found true sources of en- 
joyment. During his sickness, his mind was 
tranquil and ever cheerful. He did not appear 
to have any slavish fears of death. His faith 
was unwavering, and sufficient for him in the 
great trial ; and I never witnessed such trust, 
peaceful composure, and strong hope, as he ex- 
hibited in his last hours." 



64 MEMOIR. 

His had been a life, not only of duty, but de- 
votion. Every day he read a portion of the 
Scriptures, and not only were his prayers offered 
morning and evening, but he was in the habit of 
lifting his thoughts to heaven as he walked the 
streets or strolled in the country, where nature 
seemed in accordance with his feelings. " When 
you speak of Henry in the domestic circle," writes 
one who knew him at home, " you need not fear 
to use strong language. I believe the life he lived 
there was more perfect, by far, than that of any 
one of whom I have personal knowledge." 

How practical and intelligent was his faith in 
Christ, may be learned from a few words which 
fell from him soon after he had given up all hope 
of recovery. " How very different is my case, 
from what it would have been, had not Christ 
died and risen again ! " To him, it is evident, 
from this speech, that " Christ had brought life 
and immortality to light through the gospel." 
And his faith in Christ had not been a merely 
speculative belief. That immortality, which the 
resurrection of Christ made sure, had shed its in- 
fluence over his whole character. While his 
hands were engaged in his earthly duties, his 
heart and his affections had been in heaven. 

As he drew near his end, he felt desirous of 
commemorating that Saviour, on whom he had 



MEMOIR. 65 

believed, according to his last request. His hope 
was, that he was soon to be united to the peo- 
ple of God in Heaven, and he desired to com- 
mune with his visible church on earth. At his 
desire, that affecting ordinance of the supper 
was administered to him by his pastor. "It 
appeared to give him much consolation. When 
the ceremony was concluded, he exclaimed, 
' Now, Lord, what wait I for ?' " In this feeling 
of strength and refreshment, from the participa- 
tion of the Lord's Supper, his experience coinci- 
ded with that of the whole Christian church. 
By this is tested the wisdom of the whole insti- 
tution. It is thus perceived to be most admira- 
bly adapted to meet and satisfy the wants of the 
soul. The soul, approaching the confines of the 
spiritual world, having bidden adieu to the things 
of time, desires to hold communion with the 
Spirit of Him, who once passed through the 
gloomy portal of death, and came back again to 
assure and comfort his friends and companions. 
It would sympathize with the joyful faith of the 
early disciples, when they ate and drank with 
him after his resurrection, and knew that " it 
was indeed the Lord." 

When the writer of this has seen the power 
of this rite to awaken faith and hope in the 
bosom of the dying, he has ceased to wonder 



66 MEMOIR. 

that in ignorant ages and superstitious countries, 
the sacramental emblems have been carried 
through the streets in pompous procession, amidst 
kneeling and awe-struck multitudes, and thought 
to contain a divine and supernatural virtue. 
That which brings comfort in the last dark and 
trying hour, when all earthly consolation is 
powerless and mortal hope is fled, has natural- 
ly claimed and enjoyed the veneration of man- 
kind. 

As the summer advanced, he became more and 
more feeble, till on the fourth of July, as has be- 
fore been related, his spirit was released from its 
wasted tenement, and departed to that better land, 
" where the blessed inhabitant shall no more say, 
I am sick." Though he was an only son and 
tenderly beloved, and after his departure, left a 
wide desolation in the hearts and the homes of 
his immediate friends ; yet such was the saintli- 
ness of his character, such his preparation for a 
higher life, that there was less of sadness in his 
death than there is in ordinary bereavements. 
His presence had been a benediction, and now 
his memory was more precious than the presence 
of a multitude of unworthy sons. Death, though 
early, had placed its seal upon his character, and 
transferred him to other scenes, before his soul 
had become sullied by the corruptions of the 



MEMOIR. 67 

world. Even his parents were willing to restore 
to God such a precious gift. The feeling of be- 
reavement was not confined to his family circle. 
It pervaded the whole sphere of his acquaint- 
ance. His former associates felt that they had 
lost a brother, one on whose friendship and fidel- 
ity they might have counted, and whose society 
they hoped to enjoy for many years to come. 

It was their solicitude to preserve some me- 
morial of the virtues, the endowments and ac- 
quisitions of their departed associate, which has 
called this memoir into existence. They wish 
to preserve in their own minds the moral image 
of their friend from oblivion and forgetfulness, to 
quicken their own sense of duty, and to stimu- 
late themselves to higher and more persevering 
endeavors. They would make known the story 
of his life to those who had with him no person- 
al acquaintance, that they may learn what may 
be achieved in the very morning of our earthly 
being, that they may feel that no period is too 
early to attain the blessedness of " the pure in 
heart, who shall see God." 

These impressions of the singular purity and 
elevation of his character, were not confined to 
those whose connection with him was of long 
standing. Strangers were equally affected by 
the manner in which he bore the inevitable pros- 



68 MEMOIR. 

pect of early death, the readiness with which he 
submitted to the mysterious allotment of his 
Heavenly Father. A letter, which is here insert- 
ed, from the Rev. Mr. Clapp, of Savannah, af- 
fords a testimony that he was uniform and con- 
sistent, the same to those whom he revealed all 
his feelings, that he was to the most casual ac- 
quaintance. It is not often that one so young is 
spoken of with a commendation so hearty, and 
a respect so profound. 

Savannah, March 12fA, 1845. 
Dear Sir, 

I regret not having been able to reply to your 
favor of February, at an earlier day. I felt at 
once deeply interested in your commemorative 
enterprise, the contemplated biography of your 
son Henry. Most cheerfully will I contribute 
my impressions of his beautiful life, to the end 
which you and your friends have in view. So 
perfect a character deserves a record and a me- 
morial. His worth, and our hearts, wherein he 
yet lives, claim such a testimony. It will give 
a new and abiding interest to his virtues and 
memory, and I hope, a new impulse to our good 
endeavors. 

It was about one year ago that I first saw your 
son. His appearance, then, gave me apprehen- 
sions for the future. A few months confirmed 



MEMOIR. 69 

this truth. Disease had set upon him no doubt- 
ful marks, though, in common with yourself, I 
cherished the hope, that our milder climate might 
restore his health, or at least prolong his days. 
But, though for a time he appeared to revive un- 
der it, the disease still held its way. 

He left Savannah in April. On the following 
June, on my arrival in New York, I saw him 
once more. He had greatly changed, and I felt 
how soon his place on earth would be vacant. 
Not long after, perhaps in July, I saw in the pa- 
pers the announcement of his death. 

My impressions of Henry's character are the 
same with those of his other and older friends. 
There was little variableness in him. He was 
cheerful, calm, mild and thoughtful, and all these 
he was uniformly. I saw him only during his 
illness, and I never saw him depressed j on the 
contrary, he seemed satisfied ; not that life had 
lost any of its beauty or charms, or that his en- 
joyments of this world were not great. He was 
keenly alive to beautiful things, and cherished a 
trust that seemed perfectly to sustain him. He 
appeared to live in his affections ; and, although 
friends and home were so dear and loved, I heard 
from him no regrets that he must leave them all. 
The Father's will he made his own ; and in his 
surrender and submission, he found the source of 



70 MEMOIR. 

an unfailing happiness. Friendship, in his mind, 
had a meaning not alone on this side of death. 
His religion did not dream that he could lose 
any love by a change of worlds. Hence he was 
composed and hopeful, when we were so cast 
down and disturbed. I saw him one morning 
in the midst of you all — a morning that you 
must all remember, when he first spoke freely 
and plainly of his condition, and the prospect of 
death. We were sad, and he was cheerful. It 
was the last time I saw him, but the impression, 
which his character gave to the scene, cannot die 
from my memory. Religion had grown to en- 
tire resignation. This occasion, with that of the 
previous Sunday, when I went with your pastor, 
and you were all received into the visible church, 
are among the most deeply impressive of my 
life. 

While in Savannah, and during the few days 
I afterwards spent in New- York, — in all my in- 
tercourse with Henry, — I cannot remember that 
I ever saw him sad. I could detect in him no 
sign, apparently he was almost unconscious, that 
his life was pursuing any other than the accus- 
tomed way. I have conversed with others who 
knew him here, especially with our friend Dr. 

A , and have found but one impression of his 

character ; it was that of great gentleness and 



MEMOIR. 71 

purity. He was the same to all. I look back 
to him now, and cannot imagine a discontented 
word or murmur to escape him, — a single in- 
stance would be so entirely inconsistent with his 
habitual life. The moral seemed to be, in him, 
peculiarly the ruling power. I do not mean that 
this part of his nature had developed, by any 
means, disproportionately. He seemed to have 
grown up harmoniously. It is seldom that we 
find symmetry and completeness. Men are apt 
to have prominent qualities — they are religious, 
or intellectual ; but how rarely do we meet a 
man in whom the whole being is trained, and no 
single feature or excellence will describe him ! 
My impression of Henry is, that he possessed a 
harmonious character. He had not so much 
strong points , as strength upon the whole ; — he 
was well balanced. His was not a striking char- 
acter — not one to attract at first sight — he was 
too modest ; but one that would win its way, 
and grow upon you more and more. He was too 
mild to dazzle. He was attractive — one to be 
loved. He reflected the image of Jesus, and 
breathed his beautiful spirit. In his departure, 
we hear the angel voice crying, " Blessed are the 
dead who die in the Lord." 

I have poorly complied with your request. I 
did not know where to stop. Do write to me 



72 MEMOIR. 

again, and give my kindest remembrances to all 
your family. 

Yours sincerely, and with many affectionate 
prayers, D. C. 

With this account agrees most perfectly the 
eulogy bestowed upon him by his own pastor, 
shortly after his decease : "I think I never was 
acquainted with a young man, who seemed more 
perfectly to secure the esteem of those who knew 
him. His unbounded benevolence, his love 
toward the whole human race, his sympathy for 
the sorrows and sufferings of his fellow creatures, 
were touching traits in one so young ; and what 
striking evidence of them did he give in that re- 
quest to his father, that ' out of the little he should 
leave, a portion might be given for the relief of 
aged and infirm colored persons, such as may be 
too old to provide for themselves.' What point 
of human need more demanding attention, more 
likely to be forgotten ? Even more touching, 
if possible, was that other bequest, of one sick 
and suffering ; ' Dear father, take this sum, and 
see if you can find any poor, suffering being, sick 
and in prison ; and if so, relieve him with it.' 
Of his calm, sweet and grateful nature, of his 
tender feeling for all ministrations, whether to 
the body's comfort or the spirit's wants, of his 



MEMOIR. 73 

religious thoughts and purposes before he was 
ill, I myself have seen many proofs. His reli- 
gious feelings were full at once of modesty and 
submission. His death was a fit and gracious 
close of such a life." 

At the next meeting of the Metropolitan Asso- 
ciation, the following resolutions were passed : 

Whereas it has pleased Almighty God, in the 
dispensation of his providence, to remove from 
among us our late fellow member and beloved 
friend, Henry A. Ingalls, whose connection 
with this Association dates from its foundation, 
and whose memory is so intimately associated 
with the history of the same : therefore, 

Resolved, That in this sad bereavement, we 
mourn the loss of one, whose kindness, intelli- 
gence, knowledge, and experience, endeared him 
to all who knew him, and made him one of the 
brightest ornaments of this Association. 

Resolved, That in his loss, we not only lose 
one endeared to all and every one of us by his 
many noble qualities, but the efficient aid of his 
clear and comprehensive mind, and active spirit ; 
and above all, we lament the loss of the bright 
example of his ever courteous, kind and consist- 
ent conduct. 

6 



74 MEMOIR. 

Resolved^ That in referring to the past, and 
retracing the history of this Association, we 
find his name foremost in the promotion of its 
welfare, the prosecution of truth, and the prac- 
tice of every Christian and civic virtue ; and that, 
therefore, we cherish his memory with feelings 
of gratitude, commensurate with his deserts. 

Resolved^ That we sincerely condole with the 
bereaved relatives of our late much loved associ- 
ate, and hereby tender to them the Association's 
deep-felt sympathies, in the grief occasioned by 
the demise of their estimable son and brother. 

Resolved^ That a copy of the foregoing reso- 
lutions (signed by the officers and members of 
this Association) be transmitted to the father of the 
deceased ; and another copy be entered at length 
with the minutes of the Association, as lasting 
proofs of the high estimation in which the de- 
parted was held by this body. 

May much of his spirit rest upon the associ- 
ates he has left behind ! May they emulate those 
virtues they knew so well how to appreciate in 
him ! May they be prepared, when called to 
follow him, to meet his pure spirit in a better 
world ! 



SELECTIONS 



FROM THE 



WRITINGS 



HENRY AUGUSTUS INGALLS. 



SELECTIONS 



ADDRESS 



DELIVERED AT THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION OF 
THE METROPOLITAN ASSOCIATION, MARCH 29, 1841. 

It has long been customary for associations, hav- 
ing for their object some permanent good, to 
celebrate, from year to year, the day on which 
they were formed into bodies, that they may thus 
bring before them a livelier remembrance of their 
first object, and of the benefits resulting from it. 
These anniversaries are beneficial, inasmuch as it 
is ever well to contemplate that which is good. 
At those periods, the mind recurs to the past, 
traces its events and circumstances, and more 
naturally ponders over them, than at any other 
time j for, then rise up and present themselves 
to the view, the various scenes that have called 
forth the energies of the mind, displayed the dis- 
position, and drawn testimonials that serve to 
endear us to our companions in the warmest ties 
of friendship and grateful remembrance. Thus 
is it that we, believing the object of our associ- 



78 SELECTIONS. 

ating together a good and important one, have 
assembled here this evening, to celebrate the an- 
niversary of our formation into a society ; to 
revive our recollections of the events that form 
its history during the past year ; and to gather 
from them new energies, with which to mark 
our course for the future. 

It is well, I have said, to contemplate that 
which is good. What greater benefit than that 
which tends to enlarge the conceptions of the 
mind, and cultivate the intellectual faculties ? 
The passions implanted in man are moderated or 
strengthened by education, which gives to him 
clearer perceptions of those habits which are 
baneful in their influence ; sets in a clearer light 
their pernicious effects ; softens the asperities of 
his nature ; and renders virtue only truly attrac- 
tive. Knowledge gives to him who possesses it, 
a superiority over the uneducated, not to be ac- 
quired by any other quality ; power may com- 
mand the bodily faculties, but can have little in- 
fluence over the mind ; for one is the gift of men, 
the other an emanation from the Supreme Being ; 
and to none but him will it bow, or the brighter 
qualities of that same emanation will it reverence. 

When we contemplate man's capacities, we 
are filled with wonder and astonishment at their 
seeming boundlessness, and we cannot but feel 



SELECTIONS. 79 

that there are higher duties imposed upon him than 
those that merely bid him gain a subsistence and 
live ; that there are social qualities to be cultiva- 
ted, moral obligations to be performed, indepen- 
dent of these. Were we confined, in our enjoy- 
ment of life, to passions strictly sensual, we had 
need to have been endowed, by the universal 
Creator, with but comparatively few of the qua- 
lities we now possess, to be enabled to enjoy it 
to its full extent j we had then, no need of the 
higher and holier impulses of our nature ; we 
had then, no need of those noble sentiments, — 
those pure aspirations, — which now form so 
great a part of the character of man. These 
would have been of but little use. The mind, 
then, if indeed man could be said to possess mind, 
had need to be but little above the instinct of the 
brute — its object scarce superior — to satiate 
its passions. It need have no higher range than 
to tell its possessor when the storm approached, 
bid him shelter himself from its beatings, or 
winter's piercing cold, without telling him also, 
that in that storm, there is something more than 
the mere howling of winds, and the falling of 
rain drops ; that there is something more in win- 
ter than its snows and chills. His object would 
have been accomplished in avoiding its fury, and 
further than that he need not go ; there need 



80 SELECTIONS. 

arise in his mind no questions concerning the 
cause of these things — no questions to enlighten 
his ignorance of them ; but he might well view 
these, and all that surrounded him, with a pas- 
sive indifference, regarding them as only the re- 
sults of fate or accident. How inferior would 
have been our destiny, had we been created such 
beings ! But we are endowed with nobler feel- 
ings, and we know that we are something more 
than flesh and blood, governed by the impulse of 
the moment ; for there is within us a never-sati- 
ated longing for something better ; we are not 
content to but live, glut our animal appetites, and 
die. Thus is it with the brute creation ; but 
there is an ever restless spirit within, seeking for 
something good, searching for greater know- 
ledge ; for in that good lies, in a great degree, 
our happiness ; and shall the divine spirit which 
breathes throughout us rest content with an in- 
feriority of knowledge, when it may soar high, 
— when assurance is given that it is kindred 
with celestial spirits ? 

In view of association with those spirits, do 
we not owe it to ourselves to make every exer- 
tion to enlighten the mind, that it may indeed 
be like them? We die — the spirit takes its 
flight to another sphere ; and there shall that 
knowledge, which was unacquired here, be sud- 



SELECTIONS. 81 

denly diffused, and all minds, all intellects, be 
made alike ? Shall he, who neglected to improve 
his faculties here, there be made equal with a 
Newton, a Franklin, with those whose lives 
were spent in search of light ? We cannot sup- 
pose so • mind is ever the same. 

" The end of life is but the beginning of a 
new existence." How much more probable 
then, that there, as here, we shall continue in the 
search of knowledge ; and he who has here 
made the farthest advance in its attainment, will 
there enjoy so great an advance in its heavenly 
pursuit. Is not here a reason for the utmost 
exertion to enlighten the mind ? We live not for 
the present, we study not for the present ; for 
though 

" Art is long 1 , yet time is fleeting ; 
And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave." 

The future is before us ; and though for a 
short time the present may fill our minds ; 
though manhood appears rife with bright visions ; 
still, the thought will have place, there is a future 
beyond this — there is a future beyond age 
— a future beyond the grave. 

The mind that is uncultivated, that has been 
unaccustomed to reading, can enjoy but compar- 



82 SELECTIONS. 

atively few of the real charms of life ; for though 
dissipation may so dull the senses that they 
shall apparently know no care, yet its pleasures 
are short-lived; and though other enjoyments 
may divert for a while, yet they are such as the 
mind can soon be satiated with. But the thoughts 
and ideas gained from study are pleasing com- 
panions at all times — never tiresome; for 
though the eye may grow weary, and seek, at 
times, other enjoyments than the printed page, 
the impressions gleaned from those pages are car- 
ried with it, and impart to every innocent amuse- 
ment an additional zest and charm. Poetry, with 
its beautiful and expressive images ; Philosophy, 
with its sublime ideas and elevated range of 
thought ; are never lost on him whose mind has 
been refined by their study ; for the little occur- 
rences of life which, to others, would be but as 
dull matters of fact, are, to such an one, never- 
failing sources of amusement and instruction. 
Perhaps, one of the most striking beneficial re- 
sults of a liberal education, is its effects upon the 
disposition. With enlarged views of humanity, 
it becomes gentle ; and benevolence towards all 
forms the distinguishing mark of the character. 
Violent resentment, dark revenge, can find little 
place to act within it ; but love, sympathy, and 
a noble generosity, are its beautiful traits. 



SELECTIONS. 83 

How many are there to whom life is all a mys- 
tery ! who live and labor, yet can scarce tell 
why ; who scarce know any other purpose of 
life, than life itself ; to whom the future is a dark 
void, with which they have but little to do ; who 
only know the present, or if they do perchance 
think of the future, think of it only with fear and 
distrust, and soon, unable to pierce through its 
shadowy veil, shrink back again from its contem- 
plation with dismay, as promising but little for 
them ! To those unacquainted with the world's 
progress, with man's high qualities and powers, 
to whom life is but a chapter of accidents, how 
drear must that future appear ! But to the en- 
lightened mind, who, in life's journey, has one 
great object in view, to which all others are sub- 
servient, how different ! These can view it with 
pleasure and confidence, as, with the experience 
of the past, giving them better opportunities of 
doing good and of perfecting the end of their 
lives. We live for some great purpose : we can- 
not be placed here, surrounded as we are, with- 
out something having been designed for us to 
accomplish ; all analogy would contradict the 
supposition ; all things else perform their various 
parts, accomplish their respective purposes. And 
can it be that man only is placed here with all 
his resources at his command, in the midst of 



84 SELECTIONS. 

beauty, with no end for him to accomplish ? It 
cannot be ; and, as I understand it, it is the ob- 
ject of all education, of all knowledge, to enable 
him the better to understand and appreciate this 
end of life, and point to him the method of attain- 
ing it. This, one of the objects of our institu- 
tion, is to give to its members greater opportuni- 
ties of acquiring that education, that knowledge 
so important. 

It may not, perhaps, be uninteresting to many 
of those who have favored us with their presence 
this evening, to know something of our history 
as a society. 

Our association was established in March last, 
(1840,) by those whose daily avocations were 
such as to deprive them of that time for pursuing 
those studies which they deemed necessary to 
prepare them to enter upon scenes, where it will 
one day be their duty to take an active part, and 
to enable them the better to appreciate and enjoy 
the powers with which they are endowed by 
the Creator ; or, in the language of the preamble 
to the constitution of the association, " the sub- 
scribers, young men of the city of New- York, 
being desirous of extending their knowledge, and 
of promoting a spirit of inquiry on useful sub- 
jects, have, for this purpose, formed themselves 
into a society, that they may thereby the more 



SELECTIONS. 85 

effectually promote this desirable object, by 
means of essays, debates, or in whatever other 
manner may be deemed most beneficial." These 
— the objects of our association, and the method 
of attaining them. 

Our history contains no important or striking 
events for the general observer ; we have sent 
forth no bright stars to illuminate and astonish 
the world ; but what light there was at first, has 
been, and we hope may continue, gradually, if 
silently, to increase, till, though it may not be 
the beacon to guide the great mass of mankind, 
it may not be without its benefits in the sphere 
within which it may be called to act ; (for he 
who possesses information may not confine it 
under a bushel, as it were, but it will become a 
source of amusement and reflection to himself 
not only, but to others with whom he may asso- 
ciate, and to whom he may impart it.) 

In our endeavors, we are not confined to de- 
bates and essays, but those means are adopted 
" which may be deemed most beneficial " to us; 
and we have therefore adopted, in connection 
with them, readings from different authors ; reci- 
tations, which tend to promote a graceful flow of 
words, combined with beauty of delivery, and 
which, being generally extracts from the best 



86 SELECTIONS. 

poets, and writers of prose, make known not a 
few of their brightest and best ideas ; — a maga- 
zine also, read weekly, composed of short original 
essays, by the members ; an institution, evidently 
most beneficial ; for the reflection necessarily re- 
quired to produce a good essay, tends to strengthen 
and cultivate the mind. Soon, to these means 
of improvement, will be added those afforded by 
the establishment of a library, which will not 
only yield instruction, but, also, in the language 
of those who first recommended it, " a species of 
amusement, not transitory, and affecting the sen- 
sual passions for the moment only, but lasting," 
and which shall indeed be a treasure more pre- 
cious to the mind than gold or silver — "a well- 
spring " of life and hope j for, when riches shall 
have failed to charm ; when sickness, sorrow, or 
distress, shall find no pleasure in them ; then the 
mind shall dwell with delight on the thoughts 
gained from those books ; when those, thought 
friends, neglect and turn coldly away, these shall 
never refuse their aid and counsel in soothing 
sorrow, affording amusement, or refreshing the 
spirits. Though otherwise the world be cold 
and desolate, the mind that has once learned to 
delight in study, shall never be lonely, but shall 
find in it companions that will afford pure and 
unalloyed enjoyment. " We are born," says 



SELECTIONS. 87 



Locke, in his ' Essay on the Understanding,' 
M with faculties and powers capable of almost 
any thing ; such, at least, as would carry us far- 
ther than can easily be imagined ; but it is only 
the exercise of those powers which gives us skill 
and ability in any thing, and carries us towards 
perfection." And one of the chief benefits of 
associations like ours, is the better opportunities 
they grant to their members of exercising" those 
powers : in debates, where are called forth both 
grace of action and force of thought ; in essays, 
which require qualities that constitute the free 
and easy writer ; recitations which strengthen 
the memory, and store the mind with beautiful 
thoughts and images. 

What a sublime subject for contemplation is 
the history of the past ! How many strange 
scenes does it present to us ! As we trace the 
progress of the world, we see nations born, cities 
springing up, empires founded, and works of art 
built. Time passes on — no vestige of them re- 
mains — its progress has been one continued 
series of revolutions and changes. 

Yet, amid all the ravages of time, and all its 
changes, there is that which has ever survived 
them, and to which they have been but as the 
refiner's fire, from which it has issued each sue- 



by SELECTIONS. 

ceeding revolution, purer and brighter than be- 
fore ; they have served forcibly to show, that 
" the eternal years of God " do indeed belong to 
truth. All the past has been as a great teacher 
of wisdom, developing new principles, each 
generation preparing the way for the succeeding 
one. 

What changes have been wrought in our own 
country ! How different were its scenes a few 
centuries since! Where once forests "reared 
their lofty heads" in undisturbed grandeur, noble 
cities now are seen ; the streams whose smooth 
surfaces were only disturbed by the ripple of the 
solitary skiff of the hunter, containing, perchance, 
the scanty fruits of a weary chase, now bear on 
their bosom the proud vessels of the white man, 
laden with earth's richest produce ; where the 
ground lay waste, and the Indian roamed in igno- 
rance, whose highest name was to be known as 
the best huntsman, or most terrible warrior, those 
now reside, who have made the " desert to blos- 
som as the rose ; " who are spreading abroad the 
principles of light and science to all parts of the 
globe ; and who, instead of striving to acquire 
the name of most mighty in war, endeavor to 
gain that of most benevolent, and diffuser of most 
happiness among men. How quickly, and how 
seemingly strangely, have the aborigines of our 



SELECTIONS. 89 

country passed away ! Of the many nations who 
once occupied our vast extent of territory, how 
very few remain ! How many have entirely dis- 
appeared from the face of the earth ! Can it be 
lamented, that it is so ? Though they have dis- 
appeared, the places they occupied have become 
the theatre for the achievement of the " first great 
act " in the history of the reformation of the gov- 
ernment of the world ; a part they could not have 
accomplished. Their position in the world was 
such, as scarce exercised any influence over its 
important affairs ; scarce capable of improving 
themselves, how could they carry out the great 
principles of political and social reformation ? 
However the philanthropist might have wished 
a better fate for them, when he reflects on the 
great principles that have been illustrated and 
carried out, in the places of their savage govern- 
ment ; principles so important to mankind, and 
which are diffusing themselves throughout every 
clime, to every shore ; he cannot but rejoice that 
they have gone, even as they have ; but joy shall 
not be confined to a few, as those principles pro- 
gress. Each spot, as it receives them, shall take 
up the shout, that sounds so joyfully in our own 
country, and nations shall add their voices, till 
all Europe, Asia, Africa, the extremities of the 
western continent, the islands of the ocean, shall 
7 



90 SELECTIONS. 

join in one universal chorus, to attest their ex- 
cellence ; and the names of Columbus, the pil- 
grim fathers, Washington and Jefferson, resound 
from every hill and valley — be graven on every 
heart ! Here has been established, by their aid 
and influence, a government founded on more 
liberal principles than any that ever before ex- 
isted ; a government dependent, not on the de- 
sires of the few, but on the will of the majority. 
How important, then, that that majority should 
consist of enlightened persons, who could not 
only know, but appreciate and maintain their 
rights. The stability of our institutions, it is be- 
lieved, depends on this. And here let me ask, 
may not associations of young men like ours, 
having for their object the diffusion of that know- 
ledge, on which it depends, become one day, one 
of the most important aids in contributing to that 
stability ? 

Time is rolling on, and of what shall future 
history consist ? Shall it, like that of the past, 
be a history of revolutions effected in blood ! Let 
us hope that a new era has arrived, and that 
instead of such recitals, it shall consist of records 
of the overthrow, — not of nations, but of false 
prejudices, both political and moral; — of the 
progress of intellectual improvement, and the 
appreciation of mind throughout the world. In 



SELECTIONS. 91 

this new era, each individual person has his im- 
portant part to perform, for individuals compose 
the mass ; and may ice hope that, amidst the va- 
rious influences which are operating together to 
establish it, by associating ourselves together, the 
better to promote our " mutual improvement," * 
our influence, however small, may not be entirely 
lost ; and that, at some future period, as we look 
back upon the events of our lives, we may re- 
joice in the reflection, our part was not left un- 
done ? 

* Motto of the Association. 



92 SELECTIONS. 



ADDRE SS, 

DELIVERED AT THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION OF 
THE METROPOLITAN ASSOCIATION, MARCH 27, 1343. 

In one of the racy " Letters from under a 
bridge," the writer, after decribing to his friend 
the manner in which he had been passing an 
hour, "falls to wondering," to use his words, 
" whether the hour of which he has given the 
picture, was a fitting link in a wise man's des- 
tiny." 

" The day," he continues, " was one to give 
birth to great resolves, bright, elastic, and genial ; 
such air and sunshine, I thought, should overtake 
one in some labor of philanthropy, in some 
sacrifice for friend or country, or in the glow of 
some noble composition." 

Another cycle is now finished in the history of 
the Association that meets you here this evening, 
and it is about entering upon the fourth year of 
its existence ; and at such a time, and on such 
an occasion, it may not, perhaps, be unmeet, that 
we also should, in a similiar spirit with the above, 
"fall to wondering" whether the hours we have 
spent in the Association have been fitting links 
in the chain of life. 



SELECTIONS. 93 

The history of the Association during the past 
three years presents little, it may be, that would 
appear important or interesting to a mere obser- 
ver j true, there has emanated nothing from the 
Association, which, thundering loud in its ear, 
has startled the public, and given, for a while, 
food to all the thousand tongues of rumor j but 
there has been a by-life, quiet perhaps, far from 
uninteresting, or even unimportant, to those con- 
cerned in it. 

The progress of such societies is not dissimilar 
to that of individual life. Ardent at first, sur- 
rounded by many friends, warm and hopeful as 
himself, man commences his career with pros- 
pects that seem to brighten ever as he contem- 
plates them ; his visions are gay, illumined by 
the sunshine of the imagination. As he moves on 
with the rapid flight of years, one by one those 
who started with him he sees dropping away, 
some to the grave, some to dwell in distant 
places ; as he nears the scene, at the noon of life, 
the view of which in the distance was so 
charming, the exaggerations of the morning mist 
disappear, and only reality is there ; not without 
beauty, but less beautiful. The loss of friends, 
and the absence of his former excited imagin- 
ation ; the formation of new friendships, which 
have but little of the warmth of earlier ones, have 



94 SELECTIONS. 

calmed and sobered the feelings, though the ener- 
gies, mental and moral, are strengthened and 
matured in this struggle. So with societies — 
many ardent spirits form their first meetings ; all 
is enthusiasm ; months or perhaps years roll 
along, and as they pass, faces that were wont to 
shed an additional beam of life and happiness at 
each gathering, are seen no longer ; voices that 
were accustomed to sound in the ear with plea- 
sant words, as they endeavored to promote the 
objects of their association, by earnest partici- 
pation in its exercises, are heard no more ; the 
places of those who owned them, become one af- 
ter another vacant ; or, as the weeks flow on, are 
filled by others, who again, as they become fa- 
miliar, drop away, some forced by the strong 
hand of death, others by the ordinary changes of 
life. Yet, amid these changes, the institutions, 
as such, become more firmly settled ; and though 
there be missed, in some, the enthusiasm of their 
first meetings, this is succeeded by the stronger 
and more enduring energies of greater experience 
and deeper convictions. 

Oar Association was formed by those who, to 
use their own language, " were desirous of extend- 
ing their knowledge, and of promoting a spirit 
of inquiry on useful subjects," by means of de- 
bates, essays, or in whatever other manner might 



SELECTIONS. 95 

be deemed most beneficial. The plan of debates 
and essays first adopted has since been adhered to, 
varied, at stated times, with readings from differ- 
ent authors, recitations, and familiar colloquial 
discussions, in the place of formal debates. 

Those who instituted the society were san- 
guine in their expectations ; they hoped much 
from their exertions ; those hopes have, perhaps, 
been more than realized ; they did not extend, 
like those of the ambitious politician, over vast 
tracts, embracing at once thousands of people, 
but were confined more to the influence their 
meetings might have over individuals; over the 
character of those who would compose its num- 
ber. Nor, it is hoped, did they over-estimate 
that influence ; of the many who have belonged, 
and still belong to it, there are none, probably, 
who will not acknowledge that there reached 
them from it, some good influences. 

There is much in our nature that requires such 
or similar associations. As a social being, man 
feels the want of some common object, the pur- 
suit of which will unite him to his fellow man ; 
the collected energies carry each individual far- 
ther than he himself would have gone alone. 
To most men, perhaps, this want is satisfied by 
the ordinary business of life, the different branches 
of that business depending, as they do, upon each 



96 SELECTIONS. 

other, the prosperity of the individual on that of 
the whole ; by the interest taken in those poli- 
tical questions in which all are equally concerned, 
or by their sympathies with their families, and 
the friendly intercourse of family with family. 

Though one may, solitary and alone, pursue 
literary studies with ardor, yet, being solitary, 
he is much more easily diverted from them than 
he would be if incited by the thought that there 
are others striving with him ; or that while he 
studies for his own immediate, personal advan- 
tage, there are those who, encouraged and stimu- 
lated by his efforts, and beholding his success, will 
be also benefited by the results. Thus the ar- 
dent are encouraged by each other's endeavors, 
and perhaps excited, also, by a spirit of emulation, 
while the influence these exert over the otherwise 
indifferent, is not slight ; for few things strike 
the mind and draw admiration sooner than supe- 
rior mental qualifications ; and there springs up 
in nearly every beholder, on witnessing the dis- 
play of them, either regret that he does not pos- 
sess like powers, or a strong desire to possess 
them. Sympathy is almost always strong for 
the cultivated mind, if that mind has not been 
false to itself, and allowed its possessor to fall 
from the high pedestal on which he stood. 

That the cultivating: the mental faculties of 



SELECTIONS. 97 

a single person, is no unimportant thing, few- 
will deny; then, the centering the energies of 
many to this object, that they may pursue it to 
their mutual advantage, it must be admitted, is 
still more desirable. 

As sources of pleasure, also, to those engaged 
in them, such associations are desirable. The 
pleasures resulting from the pursuit of the object 
which unites them, are not, like ordinary ones, 
soon exhausted, worn out, but increase with every 
effort ; they grow within themselves ; and suf- 
ficient to themselves, they need not other con- 
tinually new extraordinary excitements to pre- 
vent them from palling or satiating the desires. 

But independent of these pleasures, there are 
others proceeding from mere intellectual associ- 
ation itself; from the familiar intercourse of 
member with member, and the friendships thus 
formed. How many pleasant remembrances are 
connected with the meetings of those who, three 
years ago this night, gathered together for the 
first time to consult upon some plan of action ! 
They were nearly all strangers to each other 
then ; but, with a common high object in view, 
how soon friends ! Many of those are now separ- 
ated from the society, but pleasing associations 
linger around the memory of them ; and they, 
doubtless, wherever they wander, sometimes glad- 



98 SELECTIONS. 

ly call to mind many of the hours spent in those 
meetings, and own their influence was good. 
Of some, the memory of them is all that remains ; 
for each year has the " summons come to one 
from among us," — to join 

" Th' innumerable caravan that moves 

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 

His chamber in the silent halls of death." 

Yet of these it may not be out of place to add, 
they went not 

" Like the quarry slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approached the grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 

But no, their memory is not all that remains ; 
there is still the influence of their words and 
example. 

The exact extent of the effect produced on 
individual character by associations like ours, 
cannot, it is true, be calculated ; but we may be 
able to trace it sufficiently far, to ascertain, that 
among the influences which affect the character, 
they hold no unimportant rank. 

However often some may repeat, that man is 
the creature of mere circumstances, blown this 
or that way by the breath of every accident, a 
little thought will show, that he is not this mere 



SELECTIONS. 99 

bubble, the sport of the winds or waters ; that his 
character, especially, does not change with every 
accident ; that there is in every soul a deep prin- 
ciple, a living motive power independent of these ; 
that there are energies pertaining to the soul as 
soul, to man as man, which, however they may 
be modified by outward things, yet exist in a 
strength, which, when fully developed and ex- 
erted, no accidental circumstances can wholly 
withstand or overthrow — for no two persons, 
when placed under the same external circum- 
stances and influences, will yield the same results. 
Yet, that circumstances do have a great modify- 
ing influence over the development of those en- 
ergies ; and indeed, over the innate qualities, by 
which the character is formed, cannot be denied. 
The progress of the soul is often compared to 
that of a stream. From the moment when it 
issues from the hill side, it is hurried forward, as 
the soul to its final destiny, to the ocean, where, 
with a thousand others, it is swallowed up in its 
depths. Its direction near its source is easily 
changed ; new channels may be cut for it, or 
impediments thrown in its way, that may turn 
it hither or thither ; still, it must flow on, or, if 
for awhile it be arrested in its progress, it is but 
that it may gather new strength to break its 
bonds, and flow with an increased impetuosity. 



100 SELECTIONS. 

The farther from its source it goes, the greater 
the number of tributaries it receives to swell it, 
and hasten it in its progress ; the deeper is the 
channel it cuts for itself, and the more difficult 
is it to alter its course, until, at last, it becomes 
a mighty stream, defying all attempts to control 
it. 

So with the progress of those innate qualities, 
mental and moral, by which the character of 
man is formed. At first weak, they may be easily 
guided ; but, gathering strength with time, from 
within themselves, as well as from without, they 
mark at last their own course. 

The first influences which affect the character 
are the circumstances of early childhood — the 
home where one lives — the place, the scenery 
which surrounds it — the situation. This last is 
perhaps a minor influence, yet not without its 
permanent effects. There is little in the narrow 
confined streets of the city, in its overloaded 
atmosphere, to suggest such ideas of freedom of 
spirit, or manliness of character, as are encour- 
aged by the wide, boundless fields of nature ; 
there is little in the harsh, grating sounds of 
paved streets, or hoarse shouts of angry and dis- 
sipated men, which has that gentle, soothing in- 
fluence exerted by almost every sound that meets 
the ear from nature's murmurs, or rural occupa- 



SELECTIONS. 



101 



tions. In the city the eye finds little of that 
beauty to dwell upon, in irregular lines of red 
and yellow buildings, dingy and dark with dust 
and smoke, which, in the country, is drunk in 
from all around, — green meadows and extended 
fields, from forests with trees of every hue, or 
mountains that, with softened tints, melt away 
in the distance. There, the wide landscape, the 
absence of all petty restraints, the free air, all 
breathe of freedom and energy of character ; 
while the tones from all around, from the rippling 
stream, the rustling leaves, the singing bird, the 
beauty of all, the sweet scents that load every 
breath of air, — have a softening and refining in- 
fluence ; they tend to bring out the better feel- 
ings of our nature. " To encourage the instinc- 
tive taste of the young for the beauty and sub- 
limity of nature," says Alison, " is to provide 
them, amid all the agitations and trials of society, 
with one gentle and unreproaching friend, whose 
voice is ever in alliance with goodness and virtue, 
and which, when once understood, is able both 
to soothe misfortune and to reclaim from folly. 
It is to identify them with the happiness of that 
nature to which they belong ; to give them an 
interest in every species of being which surrounds 
them ; and, amid the hours of curiosity and de- 
light, to awaken those latent feelings of benevo- 



102 SELECTIONS. 

lence and of sympathy, from which all the moral 
or intellectual greatness of man finally arises. It 
is to lay the foundation of an early and manly 
piety, amid the magnificent system of material 
signs in which they reside, to give them the 
mighty key which can interpret them, and to 
make them look upon the universe which they 
inhabit, not as the abode only of human cares, or 
human joys, but as the temple of the living God, 
in which praise is due, and where service is to be 
performed." 

True, bad passions may linger there, and 
grow in the heart, but they find no sympathy in 
nature's beauties ; and if external scenery or cir- 
cumstances could banish them, they would be 
banished. 

But these, great as their influence may be, are 
less important in the results than the home that 
dwells among them ; no outward circumstances 
have that effect in the formation of the character 
which follows from the teachings of home. 
Home is where the passions and tastes first de- 
velope themselves, and there they receive their 
first direction. If, then, bad passions are not 
checked or corrected, or if they are encouraged 
and aided, almost all other influences will avail 
but little to their correction ; till, at last, taking 
deep root, they listen to no voice but the whis- 



SELECTIONS. 103 

perings of their own desires and inclinations. On 
the contrary, let the better impulses of our nature 
be fostered and cherished by home associations ; 
by its pure, fire-side enjoyments, and friendly 
sympathies ; let them be strengthened by culture, 
and the planting of deep-settled convictions ; let 
them grow with time, and no after circumstances 
shall supplant them. 

There are some, indeed, who, amid the best 
influences of home and long continued — seem 
not to yield to them, but to surrender themselves 
to passion, and almost all that is evil ; but even 
these, bad as they sometimes are, under these 
influences, without them would have been, prob- 
ably, still worse. Again, there are some who, 
amid apparently every possible combination of 
evil, come from them pure, and confirmed in 
every good principle. These show that charac- 
ter is not the result of external influences alone. 

May we not see in the calm, meditative tone 
of Bryant's poetry, in the beauty and truthful- 
ness of his descriptions of natural scenery, and 
the tenor of his reflections over them, some of the 
influences of the circumstances of his early life ? 
In the gentle spirit, and lofty tone of thought, 
that pervade all his poetry ; in the purity of its 
moral teachings and its noble truths ; have we 
not a visible evidence of his sympathies with na- 



104 SELECTIONS. 

ture, and the depth to which her feelings sunk 
in his heart, as well as the debt he owes to those 
from whom his thoughts received their first 
direction ; or, who strengthened and confirmed, 
by their judicious culture, his high aspirations ? 

The extremes of wealth or poverty have gen- 
erally a modifying influence in the formation of 
the character — the one by cramping the ener- 
gies in denying those things necessary to their 
full development, the other by too often taking 
away the will to bring them out in their full 
force ; though there are some, who, stimulated, 
perhaps, by the noble example and wholesome 
teachings of a parent, have permitted neither the 
barriers, and oftentimes vicious associations of 
the one, nor the enfeebling luxuries of the other, 
to hinder the full expression of their better im- 
pulses. 

When one has grown up with every good prin- 
ciple strengthened by habit, and by the influ- 
ences of pure associations, no after vicissitudes of 
wealth or poverty, or separation from friends or 
country, can destroy the character thus formed. 

The friendships formed in youth rank next, 
perhaps, to the influences of home, in either form- 
ing new traits of character, or altering or con- 
firming those already springing up. 

We are attached to our friends, because we 



SELECTIONS. 105 

sympathize with them ; we like their habits, their 
principles of action ; and, liking these, we natu- 
rally copy them, and incorporate their sentiments 
with our own. Our amusements are not solitary 
ones ; but as we are social beings, our greatest 
pleasures are those afforded by a familiar inter- 
course with our friends : and the tastes and sen- 
timents acquired from this intercourse, have either 
a refining and elevating tendency, or an influence 
of the reverse character. 

Literary associations, like our own, combine 
several influences. The friendships formed in 
them, are often of a most pleasing nature ; for, 
as the object for which they are formed, the 
" mutual improvement " of their members, is a 
high one, it is not calculated to bring together 
for any length of time, at least, the vicious or 
low inclined ; while the pursuit of that object in 
increasing the store of knowledge, in constantly 
providing new and pure sources of pleasure, and 
thus purifying the tastes and giving a relish for 
those quiet enjoyments which form one of the 
chief charms of home, in bringing continually be- 
fore one, for study and contemplation, elevated 
standards of conduct or action, cannot but have 
an ennobling tendency in the formation of the 
character. 

We have thus considered, briefly indeed, some 
8 



106 SELECTIONS. 

of the influences that enter into the formation of 
the character, and among them the tendency of 
the influences exerted by literary associations. 
If it has been seen that those influences are good, 
and that they have an elevating tendency, then 
we may resolve the doubt or wonder, with which 
we commenced, by concluding that the hours 
which we have spent in such an association have 
not been "unfit links " in the chain of life. 



SELECTIONS. 107 



PHILOSOPHY versus POETRY. 

Are the pursuits of the philosopher more ele- 
vated than those of the poet ? 

Many definitions have been given of the term 
Philosophy, but they all tend to this one, deep 
knowledge. The pursuit of the philosopher is 
truth, and the objects that engross his attention 
in this pursuit are, God, Nature, and Man. Of 
the first, than the contemplation of the attributes 
of that being from whom all life and energy flow 
— from whom we derive all those powers that 
elevate the man above the brute — who has spread 
around and invested with a sacred charm, all that 
is beautiful and noble — what can be more ele- 
vating ? That can only be elevating which tends 
to raise the mind and give to it purity, and dig- 
nify the character ; and what more so than this ? 
As the infinite Being is only studied with pure 
and high thoughts, so they fill the mind as it 
contemplates his handiwork in the beauties of 
nature. She presents a scene to the philosopher 
that can only be understood by him who has 
been habituated to elevated thoughts. The feast 
of pleasure he enjoys in gazing on nature's beau- 



108 SELECTIONS. 

ties, is greater far than epicurean ever experi- 
enced ; one that does not pander to the baser 
appetite, but engages all the nobler powers of the 
soul — all the sublimer attributes of the mind. 
He looks on them with a cold indifference, merely 
that he may learn how best to express their col- 
ors ; but, penetrating deeper than the mere sur- 
face he gazes upon, finds food for contemplation 
which he only can taste. As he gazes on the 
works of nature, he is at once struck with their 
magnificence, their beauty and order, and in them 
sees at a glance, the character and nature of their 
Creator. Could a being that was not in the high- 
est degree pure and holy, be the architect of this 
beautiful world ? Could it be possible, that as 
he views the bright flowers that deck its plains 
and valleys, and the beauty of its verdure, that 
in them he could see any other than the power 
of one who was virtue's and purity's self? Could 
it be possible, that as he views the brilliant orbs 
that shine so bright in the heavens above us, as 
he traces their various paths and courses, wander- 
ing on with the utmost regularity and order, and 
asks himself why these things are so, that his 
mind could revert to any other than God himself? 
He considers that the same grand Being who 
made them, and guides them in their eternal 
courses, also controls the destinies of those beings 



SELECTIONS. 109 

who inhabit them ; and as he reflects, that in 
those works nothing but harmony and purity are 
to be found, he inevitably draws thence a grand 
lesson, teaching that, as in all his other works 
they are prominent, so should they be the char- 
acteristic traits of man as well as nature. As 
the philosopher thus reflects, they become his 
distinguishing marks, and a noble dignity per- 
vades his character. Is there nothing elevating 
in this ? What can be more elevating than that 
which, in every precept, inculcates a lesson tend- 
ing to render the character dignified, and inspire 
the mind with noble sentiments ? But not only 
are these the philosopher's study : truth is his 
object, whether as developed in nature or man ; 
and whether he looks for it in the starry heavens, 
or in the passions that sway humanity, still is it 
the same ; still has it the same effect. The na- 
ture of man — the intimate, yet wonderful, con- 
nection of mind and matter — -the manner in 
which love, hatred, fear, hope, and the various 
other passions influence us — are his careful 
study : and what nobler or more sublime study 
can be found on earth ? In the pursuit of an ob- 
ject, those means are invariably adopted for its 
accomplishment, that agree in their tendency 
with the nature of the things pursued ; so is it 
with the object of the philosopher's pursuit — 



110 SELECTIONS. 

truth. As he seeks it, it tinges all his actions, 
and his soul and mind acquire that elevated cast 
only to be attained in its knowledge. I do not 
wish to detract from the merits of the poet ; he 
may have some noble, some elevating points in 
his productions, but still they do not affect us, 
as do the reflections of the philosopher ; they do 
not inspire us with such elevating sentiments, for 
this is not the prime object of the poet ; his ob- 
ject is to please j and as this is his object, says 
Dr. Blair, "it is to the imagination and the pas- 
sions that he addresses himself." What are the 
feelings with which we generally read poetry ? 
Do we read it to gain elevating ideas, nobler con- 
ceptions of humanity, or that the mere fancy may 
be pleased ? When we study a piece of poetry, 
do we feel, on arising from such study, as though 
our ideas were more elevated than before, — as 
though there were that within us which partook 
not of the nature of earth, but belonged to an 
higher and nobler region ? How rarely is it that 
such thoughts of the nature of the mind, or les- 
sons that all things teach, are diffused by the 
reading of poetry ! On the contrary, there is 
diffused throughout the reader, a feeling of lassi- 
tude and languor, little favorable to elevating 
ideas. But what are the feelings with which we 
pursue the study of philosophy, of which, and 



SELECTIONS. Ill 

of Newton, the poet has used the following lan- 
guage : 

" Philosophy, baptized 
In the pure font of eternal love, 
Has eyes indeed ; and, viewing all she sees 
As meant to indicate a God to man, 
Gives Him his praise, and forfeits not her own. 
Learning has borne such fruit in other days 
On all her branches ; piety has found 
Friends in the friends of science ; and true prayer 
Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews. 
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage, 
Sagacious reader of the works of God, 
And in his word sagacious. Such, too, thine, 
Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, 
And fed on manna." 

To the poet we go to obtain relief from the 
weary hour, in harmonious numbers, and mea- 
sured cadences, — a momentary and short-lived 
pleasure. But the natural feeling with which 
we go to the philosopher, is to obtain those ideas 
which shall elevate us in the scale of humanity. 
Why do we pursue these different studies with 
these different feelings, without it is in the very 
nature of the one to give us those elevated and 
noble sentiments, and of the other, (the greater 
part of which consists of pleasing fantasies of the 
imagination,) to give mere passive pleasure, — a 
pleasure as well satisfied, in very many cases, 
by immoral recitals, as by higher themes ? Who 



112 SELECTIONS. 

would think of sending the inquirer for instruc- 
tion in noble sentiments and elevating ideas, to 
Byron, rather than Abercrombie, who, in the lan- 
guage of another, " has exhibited philosophy as 
the handmaid of religion," that from which are 
derived all elevating principles, " and has made it 
manifest that all the rays of knowledge naturally 
converge to that one point in which is situated 
the throne of eternal and heavenly truth ? But 
what, in fact, is the poet's province ? Has he 
any real province ? " The highest state of man," 
says the philosopher, "consists in his purity as a 
moral being." (Abercrombie.) Is this the style 
of the poet's teaching ? Is this his aim to show ? 
Is this the conclusion one would come to in 
studying poetry ? He allows the muse at one 
time to sing of that which comes within the 
bounds of morality, and at another, to wander 
far from them. Now, her words flow smooth 
with the tender language of love, and anon launch 
out into the most bitter invectives of hate and 
jealous rage. The muse scorns not to tamper 
with the lowest passions, or treat lightly the 
noblest powers of the soul. The poet has not, 
like the philosopher, one grand point, one high 
aim, towards which steadily to direct his ener- 
gies, but his song varies with the passions of the 
moment. And can it be doubted which is the 



SELECTIONS. 113 

more elevating, that which adopts one steady 
course, the knowledge of truth, the end of all 
knowledge, or that which is capricious, wander- 
ing here and there without object ? Poetry does 
not contain all that is beautiful and sublime ; for, 
have Homer and Milton given us magnificent 
descriptions of the creations of their fancy ? — 
Newton, from the simple circumstance of the 
falling of an apple, brought to our knowledge 
truths sublimer and nobler far than the highest 
imaginations of the poet ! Call you the unnat- 
ural creations of the poet's active brain sublime ? 
— Where, in all the range of poetry, will you 
find that which shall compete in grandeur and 
sublimity, with Franklin's idea of drawing the 
lightnings from the heavens, and making them 
conducive to the happiness of mankind ? Have 
Thomson and others given us beautiful descrip- 
tions of the scenery of nature ? — It is but one 
branch of the philosopher's province to study her 
works, and, penetrating her mysteries, and giv- 
ing us new and more extended conceptions of 
Him who was her creator, lead the mind from 
" nature up to nature's God." Has the poet 
drawn vivid descriptions of humanity and its 
frailties ? — Has he depicted in lively colors its 
dark passions ? — It is for the philosopher to 
study them, and give us such views of them as, 



114 SELECTIONS. 

instead of rendering them attractive, shall drive 
them from the bosom, and diffuse in their place 
sentiments of a higher cast, causing man to shun 
that which is base and low, and delight only in 
that which is pure, and indeed noble and ele- 
vating. 

Which has conferred the greater benefit on 
the world, philosophy or poetry ? With which 
would we be most willing to dispense ? We 
would surely be unwilling to dispense with the 
more elevating — we would not desert the nobler 
for the baser ; and yet, who would banish phi- 
losophy from our books, were we obliged to choose 
between them, and substitute in its place poetry 
alone ? Which has most contributed to advance 
society to its present elevated state ? Those 
studies are surely the more elevating which en- 
large the capacities of the mind — "all that," in 
the language of Dick, " tend to raise our minds 
to the Supreme Ruler of all worlds ; to expand 
our views of his infinite knowledge and wisdom ; 
to excite our gratitude and our admiration of his 
beneficent designs ; give us grander views of all 
that is great and good ; of all that is beautiful 
and noble, which appears in all his arrangements. 
Were it not for natural philosophy, the various 
phenomena of nature, which we now view with 
delight and interest, and from the study of which 



SELECTIONS. 115 

such pleasure is derived, would become objects 
of terror and gross superstition, while they are 
now viewed in the light of evidences of wisdom ; 
and when we study them, familiar with the re- 
searches of the philosopher, we rise above the 
lower and baser feelings, and the heart is filled 
with high and pure aspirations. Were it not for 
the researches in moral philosophy, who could 
paint the scenes with which the earth would be 
filled ? All the better feelings would be lost 
amid the universal wreck of mind, and we, in- 
stead of being the elevated beings we now are, 
would be but fit companions of those savages, 
into whose minds the light of science has never 
penetrated. Where would be the sublimity of 
poetry, what noble parts would it contain, were 
it not for philosophy ? The few sublime rays it 
does contain, are like the fragments of the dia- 
mond, which, though pretty in themselves, yet 
lack the beauty of the gem itself, unbroken and un- 
soiled. The poet may aptly be compared to the 
philosopher, as the shadow to the man. The 
shadow gives a faint outline of man — so is it 
with the poet ; in the meditations of his muse 
he gives an inkling of philosophy, touches the 
surface, but the vastness, the grandeur of the 
original is wanting. 



116 SELECTIONS. 

The gentleman has labored hard, but, it ap- 
pears to me, in a very unsatisfactory manner, to 
show that the pursuits of the poet are more ele- 
vated than those of the philosopher ; for the 
reason, that poetry has diffused throughout the 
world more happiness than philosophy. On this 
he has rested his main argument, which, it will 
readily be seen, is not a very strong one. On 
what does our happiness here depend ? On our 
relations to society, on the comforts we enjoy, 
and the condition of the mind itself. " One of 
the subordinate uses of natural philosophy," says 
Dick, " is to enable us to construct all those 
mechanical engines that facilitate human labor, 
increase the comforts of mankind, and tend to 
enlarge our views of the operations of nature." 
There we see it the chief instrument of our hap- 
piness. "A still higher use to which it is sub- 
servient," he continues, " is to demonstrate the 
wisdom and intelligence of the Great First Cause 
of all things ; to enlarge our conceptions of the 
admirable contrivance and design which appear 
in the different departments of universal nature. 
In this view, it may be considered as forming a 
branch of natural theology ', or, in other words, a 
branch of the religion of angels, and of all other 
holy intelligences." The science of natural phi- 
losophy, of which mechanics is but a branch, has 



SELECTIONS. 117 

enabled man to accomplish operations, far beyond 
the limits of his own physical powers. Without 
a knowledge of this science, the enjoyments of 
man, and consequently, his happiness as a social 
being, would be extremely limited. " In the 
savage state, ignorant of agriculture, manufac- 
tures, and navigation, and the other arts that de- 
pend upon this science, he is exposed, without 
shelter from the inclemencies of the seasons ; he 
is unable to transport himself beyond oceans, and 
visit other climes and tribes of his fellow men." 
He exists in the desert, comfortless and unim- 
proved ; the fertile soil, over which he roams, is 
covered with thorns, briars, and thickets, for the 
haunts of beasts of prey. His enjoyments are 
little superior to those of the beasts, while he is 
much their inferior in point of agility and phy- 
sical strength. But, when philosophy has de- 
monstrated the principles of mechanics, and in- 
troduced the practice of the useful arts, " the 
wilderness and the solitary places are made glad, 
and the desert rejoices and blossoms as the rose j" 
cities are built, and the comforts of life are ra- 
pidly spread around; and "man advances with 
pleasure and improvement, to the scene of his 
high destination." The philosopher penetrates 
deeper and farther than the poet ; and conse- 
quently, has greater sources from which to derive 



118 SELECTIONS. 

those sentiments that dignify and elevate the 
man. The philosopher, or u the man who takes 
an enlightened view of ail the works and dispen- 
sations of God, and of all the circumstances and 
relations of subordinate beings, necessarily ac- 
quires a nobleness and liberality of mind, and an 
accuracy in judging of things human and divine, 
which no other person can possess." The very 
nature of the philosopher's pursuit, being more 
extended, and including the noblest of creations, 
enables him to acquire grander views, and more 
elevated ideas ; from the very fact, that his know- 
ledge is more extensive. The poet does not 
search deeply into natural history, into the nature 
of man^ or any other branch of knowledge ; his 
purpose can be accomplished without so doing. 
He, like the humming bird, skips from flower to 
flower, culling the sweets that lie on the sur- 
face ; but, the richer food, that lies hidden be- 
neath, escapes untouched by him. But the phi- 
losopher not only enjoys the external beauties ; 
for him also is reserved the deeper treasures es- 
caped unheeded by the poet. While the form of 
man, and his animal powers, apparent to the eye, 
and the visible effects of the mind, engross the at- 
tention of the poet ; not only these, but the nature 
of that mind, the breath of life, and his construc- 
tion, so wonderful, are the philosopher's study. 



SELECTIONS. 119 

That, undoubtedly, which is wonderful, grand, 
noble, beautiful, has the tendency to excite in 
the mind high thoughts and noble ideas. Then, 
how elevating, how noble the study of man ! 
The study of that being, who was made but a 
little lower than the angels ! The study, not 
only of his mental powers, but their adaptation to 
the matter that constitutes his figure ! What 
object calculated to induce higher strains of 
thought, than that delicate piece of mechanism, 
the eye ? Man cannot so much as form one of 
the least of the particles of which it is construct- 
ed ; how much less impart to it the light that 
conveys the glance of love and friendship ! Or, 
what higher contemplation, than the immense 
systems of the universe, as revealed to us by the 
philosopher ? It is such as these form his study, 
where, at every step, are revealed evidences of 
wisdom. While we may read the brighest ef- 
fusions of the poet with comparative indifference, 
and no emotion, we cannot contemplate the vast, 
boundless field of the philosopher, understand- 
ing^, without feelings of the utmost awe and 
veneration. 

He has laid great stress upon, and endeavored 
to show, that poetry is equally as elevating as 
philosophy, from the reason, as he gives it, that 
poetry is so intermingled with philosophy, that 



120 SELECTIONS. 

there is no separating them ; claiming that poetry 
derives its charm from philosophy, thus grant- 
ing at once the superior elevation of the pursuit 
of philosophy. He seems to have regarded only 
a few specimens of poetry, or he would have 
found that those who derive a dignity and eleva- 
tion from philosophy, form but a small speck 
in comparison with the vast sea of nonsensical 
rhyming that is floating throughout the world. 
If the philosophy contained in Pope's Essay on 
Man, gives to it such a charm ; if that small par- 
ticle is so beautiful to the contemplative reader, 
how would he be filled with admiration, could 
he explore the vast field existing independent of 
that ! What were society without philosophy ? 
We can only picture to ourselves the miserable, 
degraded state in which it would be, by looking 
at those nations where it scarcely exists. 

In the savage life there exists, comparatively, 
no philosophy ; while it is well known that the 
language of the Indians of our own country, and 
of other countries, is highly poetic — and how 
miserable are they ! Living for centuries in the 
same ignorant and brutal condition, making no 
progress towards civilization — how was it in the 
dark ages, when nearly all philosophy was buried 
beneath the mass of barbarism and ignorance ? 
In what a degraded state was all Europe then ! 



SELECTIONS. 121 

Little advance was made in refinement. Men 
were governed by the most barbarous laws and 
absurd customs ; tyranny reigned triumphant ; and 
so degraded had the people become, from their 
state, when Grecian and Roman science reigned 
throughout the vast extent of Rome's empire, 
that they were nearly all in a state of slavery and 
feudal bondage. But when the genius of Bacon 
lifted the veil that had hitherto enveloped philos- 
ophy in its dark folds, when knowledge diffused 
abroad its vivifying and ennobling rays, how rapid 
the advance of man, from a state of almost bru- 
tal ignorance, to dignity and nobleness ! Science 
advanced with rapid strides ; man knew and felt 
his worth, and dared to break the chains that 
made him slave, and assert his freedom, without 
which, alas for his dignity ! 

And now, since the principles of philosophy 
have been demonstrated and carried out in all the 
arts and sciences of life, how bright a contrast 
does society present, to its state in those dark 
ages ! Admitting that music and oratory are de- 
rived from poetry, still I conceive that he is no 
farther advanced in his argument than before ; 
for music not only " has charms to soothe the 
savage breast," but it is also a powerful instru- 
ment of the excited passions ; and he will use it 
to the best advantage, whose mind, tempered by 
9 



122 SELECTIONS. 

philosophy, can discern its nature, and employ 
it to bring about good and benevolent effects. 
So also is it with the orator ; the words he utters 
are but the result of passion, as it has been 
directed or calmed by the influence of study ; 
and he is liable, if his energies are not directed 
aright by the gentle influence of reason, to pour 
forth those strains that shall stir up the lower 
feelings of the soul, and call its base passions into 
action, as to give utterance to those sentiments 
that shall elevate the mind. He has, throughout 
his argument, considered the passions as the off- 
spring of music and oratory, forgetting the while, 
that such is not the case. They are but instru- 
ments of the passions j powerful instruments, 
perhaps, for good or bad, as they are directed 
by those whose minds are elevated or debased. 



SELECTIONS. 123 



ANCIENT versus MODERN LAWS. 

Our modern laws and customs, conceived in 
truth and wisdom, are much more conducive to 
public happiness than ancient laws founded in 
superstition, and based upon the worst passions 
of humanity. The laws and customs of a people 
form their government : and as their government 
is good or bad, so will peace and happiness be 
diffused throughout them. They are instituted 
to preserve the peace and just rights of the citi- 
zen ; therefore, where the laws are good and 
properly administered, we may reasonably expect 
to see happy results flow from them. But the 
laws and customs of the ancients were such as 
insured to them no peace ; on the contrary, they 
continually involved them in war, in which it 
was their whole object to make the people well 
versed. To this point ail their customs tended. 
Such was the object of the laws of the oft-praised 
Lycurgus. There is no calamity to be dreaded 
by a nation so much as that of war. It not only 
retards the progress of national prosperity, but it 
causes throughout the length and breadth of a 
country the sorrow of broken hearts, leaving deso- 



124 SELECTIONS. 

late the homes, the firesides of the former happy 
family, and destroying the peace of millions of 
human beings. Yet, in ancient governments, 
the daring ambition or caprice of a single indi- 
vidual, would often bring that dreadful scourge 
upon a whole country. Such was it that caused 
the celebrated Trojan war, which was continued 
to the great length of ten years. Let it not be 
said that this is going too far back into the annals 
of history ; the laws at that period were scarcely 
framed. Eight hundred years later, what was 
there in their laws and customs to check the dar- 
ing ambition of that scourge of the human race, 
Alexander, who caused the death of millions of 
his fellow beings, that he might be called great. 
At the battle of Arbela, in which the forces of 
Alexander engaged the Persians, the number of 
Persians slain was estimated at three hundred 
thousand. Are such sanguinary conflicts calcu- 
lated to diffuse happiness throughout an empire, 
even though the ambition of the destroyer be 
satisfied ? But not to Alexander alone are they 
to be limited. Of what does the history of an- 
cient nations consist, but of the recitals of such 
occurrences ? Power was the object of most of 
the rulers, and to attain that, no crime was too 
horrid for them to be guilty of ; no deed too 
black for them to commit ! Millions of lives 



SELECTIONS. 125 

were offered at the shrine of their idolatry, and 
nations were destroyed that they might be ren- 
dered famous ! 

To the enjoyment of happiness, liberty and a 
pure religion are indispensable. But do we find 
these in the governments of the ancients ? Far 
from it ! The government of Rome appeared to 
have been founded on just principles ; but soon 
it was found, that, although the citizens retained 
the name of freemen, their laws were insufficient 
to protect them from the tyranny of an absolute 
monarchy, and their government fell into the 
hands of those, who, regardless of their country's 
happiness and prosperity, only used their power 
to satisfy the demands of their own ambition. 
The happiness of the people and tranquillity of 
government are inseparably connected. But, on 
looking over the pages of history, do we there 
find tranquillity in the government of ancient 
nations ? No ! far from it. Their very nature for- 
bids it. Their object was not to secure happi- 
ness to the people, but to render them a terror to 
surrounding nations. Their religion, instead of 
being the harbinger of peace and happiness, often- 
times involved them in conflicts with other peo- 
ple, and thus, instead of proving to them a bless- 
ing, proved a curse. The mind cannot be at rest 
under dark, uncertain superstitions ; yet it was 



126 SELECTIONS. 

these that composed their religion, and which 
constituted a great part of their government. It 
was these that often controlled the destinies of 
whole nations, plunging them into war, or pre- 
serving peace, as accident dictated. 

Nations would resort to the oracle to listen to 
the wild exclamations and incoherent language 
of a crazy woman, — placing their reliance upon 
the construction the designing priest gave to her 
words. They had a god for almost every occu- 
pation and business of life, without whose favor 
it would be impossible to progress in prosperity, 
— and to obtain which, immense sacrifice must 
be offered up. The appetites of the officiating 
priests, who in reality constituted the gods, often 
brought ruin upon their devotees. Temples, 
magnificent beyond description, were erected to 
imaginary gods and goddesses, that their suppos- 
ed favor might be obtained and their dreaded 
anger averted. Not content with giving their 
cattle and riches as sacrifices to the gods, often 
their slaves, or those whom they had conquered 
in war, were made the victims of their idolatrous 
worship, and perished by the knife or in the 
flames, as an offering to some tutelary deity. 

Are such things consistent with human hap- 
piness ? The mere recital of them is revolting 
to our nature ; and can it be doubted that human 



SELECTIONS. 127 

nature is or ever was the same ? How then can 
we reconcile, with the idea of happiness, the dis- 
gusting scenes of the arena, the gladiatorial com- 
bats, the deadly strife between man and man, and 
the spectacle of the miserable struggle to escape 
the fangs of the wild beast, with which it was 
customary for monarchs to debase the minds of 
the people ; sometimes even joining in the strife 
themselves, and, like the cowardly Commodus, 
apparently taking a pride in their degrading ex- 
ploits ? These were the amusements of those 
happy times, secured to them by kind, wise laws / 
And what was their effect on the people ? Did 
they make them the refined and polished people 
of the present day ? No ! Although their man- 
ners were not as rude as those of the uncultivated 
wanderers of the forest, still the nobler, the finer 
feelings of the man, which bestow upon us our 
happiness, were lost to them ; — their senses be- 
came blunt, from the frequent repetition of the 
scenes of war, and the ghastly spectacle of the 
arena. They were, in fact, that which is the 
pest of the earth, a military people, — the design 
of their laws was accomplished. We search the 
record of history in vain, to find those laws, 
those forms of governments, that were calculated, 
in their operations and their effects, to diffuse 
happiness throughout an empire. 



128 SELECTIONS. 

We are accustomed to admire the valor of 
the soldiers of Greece, Sparta and Rome, and 
dwell with wonder on their heroic deeds, forget- 
ting the while, that their victories are spreading 
desolation through the hearts of millions of be- 
ings, and adding to the distress of nations. We 
forget that military force is supported by oppres- 
sive and arbitrary laws. Man is in his disposi- 
tion naturally peaceful, and will only resort to 
war when compelled. What then must have 
been the rigor of those laws that made the peo- 
ple wholly military ? Let us follow the history 
of Rome, when she had arrived, at the price of 
thousands of lives, at the proud distinction of 
Mistress of the World ; and when, if at any time, 
she should be most happy. We find, instead of 
that happiness, a misery far from it. She had 
been raised to her grandeur by military force ; 
and her military power was a blind and irresist- 
ible instrument of oppression, ready at all times 
to obey the command of a favorite leader, whe- 
ther to pillage, to destroy an enemy, or subvert 
the liberties of their own empire. The throne 
and purple robe were literally bathed in blood, 
and the rulers of the empire were not chosen 
even by the senate ; but were appointed, invested 
with supreme power, and deposed, to make way 
for other favorites, as the passion or caprice of 



SELECTIONS. 129 

the military dictated. The emperor, appointed 
by them one day, might be made the victim of 
their anger or revenge, the next ; and ere the 
blood that flowed from the veins of the late as- 
sassinated ruler, be dry, another, perhaps a bar- 
barian peasant, is elevated to the vacant throne. 
Although, during the reign of Adrian and the 
Antonines, the Romans enjoyed peace and hap- 
piness, yet that enjoyment was transient, and de- 
pended, not so much on the laws as on the pecu- 
liar dispositions of the rulers ; for under the same 
laws and the same government of " absolute 
power," the dark, unrelenting Tiberius, the furi- 
ous Caligula, the profligate and cruel Nero, the 
beastly Vitellius, and the timid, inhuman Domi- 
tian, committed atrocities such as condemn them 
to everlasting infamy. During the reign of Gal- 
lienus, such was the discontent and unhappy 
state of the people, that there appeared nineteen 
pretenders to the purple robe and the title of em- 
peror. These are a few of the effects of those 
happy laws that tend to make a nation soldiers ! 
Would this be the case if the government were 
such as to diffuse, by its wise and beneficent 
laws, happiness among the people ? The oppo- 
nents of this view of the question may perhaps 
say that it is an extreme point ; that this is the 
period when Rome began to lose her glory, and 



130 SELECTIONS. 

decline. Exactly ; but why should that ancient 
government have declined at all ? Why, if the 
people were happy under their laws, should it 
not have continued in its glory until the present 
time, — not only retaining its glory as it then 
was, but gaining new laurels, and acquiring new 
fame ; not the glory of military achievements, 
but that which avails a rapidly progressing, 
happy and peaceful nation ? 

Let us now turn from the contemplation of 
these unhappy states, to that of modern laws. 
In doing this, let us first view the spirit in which 
they were conceived and formed. In referring 
to modern laws and customs, I shall principally 
take for my example those of the United States, 
as being strictly modern in all their operations, 
and only slightly touch those of the governments 
of Europe ; for many of them do not contain in 
their elements the true spirit of liberty. Yet 
they will bear, at the present time, comparison 
with their state when the people were mostly 
serfs or bond-men to feudal lords, and governed 
by a thousand petty tyrants. But to return. 
Our modern laws are based upon these self-evident 
truths, " that all men are created equal ; that 
they are endowed by their Creator with certain 
unalienable rights ; that among these are life, 
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness ; and that to 



SELECTIONS. 131 

secure these rights, governments are instituted 
among men, deriving their just powers from the 
consent of the governed." These were the un- 
alienable rights, the framers of our constitution 
mutually pledged to each other their lives, their 
fortunes and their sacred honors, to sustain ; and 
our laws are framed with this object. 

This end has been accomplished 5 that peace 
and happiness are secured to the people, it requires 
no searching of the records of the historic volume 
to show ; but I refer you to your own experience ; 
to the scenes that each day meet the eye ; to the 
pages of every newspaper with which our coun- 
try abounds. Among those laws which serve 
most effectually to promote our happiness, are 
those which secure to us the right of universal 
suffrage, trial by jury, and religious freedom. 
On the benefits of religious freedom it is unne- 
cessary to dwell. This was one of the grand 
objects, to obtain which our forefathers crossed 
the ocean, and made the wilderness their home ; 
preferring to worship God in a conscientious 
manner, and be happy in the desert, to worshipping 
him as others dictated. In ancient governments, 
their religious and superstitious observances were 
closely connected with the laws, and to the ruler 
was often given religious supremacy. It was 
even customary to deify them, thus making ob- 



132 SELECTIONS. 

jects of worship of men of the worst description 
and habits. 

But our institutions are different ; we worship 
in whatever form and manner we please, thus 
securing to ourselves a means of obtaining happi- 
ness. Our God is God, and our worship of him 
is the voluntary tribute of a grateful heart. 

One of our greatest privileges and most inesti- 
mable rights, is that of universal suffrage, by 
which we secure to ourselves liberty, that which 
is of all things the most precious. Our people 
are here truly represented, not by life representa- 
tives, who after a time represent the people or 
not, as they choose ; but as often as the people 
acquire new principles, so are they represented 
by their delegates. But it is unnecessary to en- 
large on this. There never was among the gov- 
ernments of old, one where the people were so 
perfectly represented as they are in our own ; 
and therefore one great cause why our laws are 
more conducive to public happiness than ancient 
laws. 

There is one other feature of our present time, 
which it is especially needful to mention : it is 
that law which secures to all the benefits of edu- 
cation. A law more conducive to public happi- 
ness than this can scarcely be imagined. 

Since our country was first settled, this has 



SELECTIONS. 133 

been an object of special attention in our legisla- 
tive halls. And what is the result ? No other 
nation ever so rapidly progressed in all that tends 
to make a people happy and respected at home 
and abroad. 

Commerce and the fine arts have here pro- 
gressed as in no other country. It is compara- 
tively but few years since our vast extent of ter- 
ritory was a trackless wilderness, inhabited by 
the roving Indian. It is but little more than 
threescore years since we became free and inde- 
pendent. Yet in this short time we have so rap- 
idly advanced, that we hold no secondary rank 
in the scale of nations ; and one of the best proofs 
of the happiness secured to the people by our 
laws, is seen in the thousands that flock here 
to seek under our modern laws, that happiness 
they cannot find under their own forms of gov- 
ernment. 



134 SELECTIONS. 



YOUTH versus MANHOOD. 

It has been asserted by some one, (Gibbon, I 
believe,) that "the common opinion, that youth 
experiences more happiness than manhood, is 
wrong." I still hold to the old opinion, that 
youth is the happiest period of life ; for the very 
nature of the circumstances of Youth and Man- 
hood, would seem to deny the truth of his posi- 
tion. The young child seems to have no other 
resource than enjoyment, as all care is taken off 
its mind by the kindness of the parents ; or if its 
fair brow is rendered gloomy by some petty oc- 
currence, it is like a cloud for a moment inter- 
cepting the rays of the smiling sun, which scarce 
casts its shadow ere it is gone, and all is bright 
and beautiful as before. The light heart of youth 
never suffers sorrow long ; but, ever full of buoy- 
ancy, the merry laugh soon dispels every trace 
of unhappiness. In the youth, almost every 
thing excites curiosity and wonder. To a man, 
even, any new discovery is a matter of happi- 
ness ; how great then must be the happiness of 
the youth, to whom almost every object he sees 
or meets is a new subject for his ever-busy 



SELECTIONS. 135 

thoughts to dwell on and wonder over. One of 
the strongest arguments I can use, perhaps, in 
favor of the happiness of youth, is the very- 
construction of our frames ; the various stages 
through which we pass, ere maturity is attained. 
When unhappiness and sorrow are allowed to 
prey even upon man, does it not injure his con- 
stitution, affect his health ? If such is a wnarCs 
every-day experience, how much more deleteri- 
ous then would its effect be upon youth — him 
whose frame is as yet unprepared to buffet the 
storms of the world ! But a kind providence has 
so ordered it, that all his works harmonize with 
each other. Is the constitution in youth tender, 
— is it less able to bear the hard, sad trials of a 
mature age ? — it is so ordained, that those trials 
are light ; and as the young frame requires en- 
joyment, and relaxation from sorrow, so is the 
heart created light, buoyant and happy. Another 
strong argument in favor of this opinion, is its 
universality. 

Every day we hear it said that such is the 
case, by those whom experience has taught the 
sad truth. Almost every writer dwells upon the 
happier days of youth. As man gazes upon those 
revelling in the charms of youth around him, he 
sighs to think that he can no more be free and 
gay as they — that their sports no more impart a 



136 SELECTIONS. 

constant charm and happiness to his soul ; and 
as he views them, memory carries him back to 
those " halcyon days," when almost every breath 
he drew, was a draught of pleasure and happiness 
— when every thing was pleasing — when there 
was novelty in every occurrence — when, with 
gay, merry companions, he sported the hours 
away, nor scarce knew aught than delight — 
when the future itself was beautiful with bright 
visions — when, if aught of trouble cast a gloom 
over his soul, a kind parent was ever nigh to re- 
lieve him of his sorrows, and guide him in those 
paths where happiness was always found. How 
many tender recollections of joy are awakened 
in him by the sound of that name, parents ! A 
mother, ever ready to grant his slightest wish, if 
it but tended to his happiness or benefit ; a 
father, " whose favor, like clouds of spring, might 
lower, 

And utter now and then an awful voice, 
But had a blessing in its darkest frown ; " 

a smile from either of whom he would now wel- 
come as one of the most precious of treasures. 
But alas ! time has wrought many sad changes in 
its rapid flight ; he has grown older, he has grown 
wiser, perhaps, but not a happier being — for 
those parents who were wont to cheer him in all 
his troubles and difficulties, and whose only aim 



SELECTIONS. 137 

seemed to be to make him happy — with time, 
have also gone, and can no more aid him in his 
onward path. Other friends, near and dear, have 
also gone, who. in youth, were happy compan- 
ions, and he is left almost alone of those with 
whom he whiled away so many pleasant hours. 
O ! what would he not give, could he but recall 
them, that they might again sit side by side, and 
reflect each other's smiles ? But no, they are 
gone, and therefore one cause of unhappiness. 
Sad impressions remain longer on the mind of 
man than of youth, and receive readier admit- 
tance there ; for it is the natural feeling of youth 
to shun aught that tends to dampen its gayety, 
and it is thus always looking to the bright side 
of the picture. 

The cares of man are many. His business, 
and the support and welfare of his family, occupy 
most of his attention. Perhaps it will be said, 
that in these consists his happiness ; that these 
are they which give to him his enjoyment. I 
answer : the experience of the great majority 
of mankind contradicts the assertion. I know 
there is a pleasure, when one sits down for reflec- 
tion, in knowing that he has been doing well, 
and that, at times, in the bosom of his family, he 
enjoys much pure happiness ; but, think you, 
that his happiness at such times exceeds the hap- 
10 



138 SELECTIONS. 

piness of those by whom he is surrounded ? He 
is happy, because they are happy, and care is 
taken off their minds ; yet, amidst all his joy, 
the thought will rise to his mind, that they must 
soon experience the trials of the world ; that they 
are fast attaining an age, when their lot shall be 
among its troubled waters ; and a shade is cast 
over his enjoyment, as he thinks of the many 
disappointments they are destined to meet with 
in their future progress ; and asks, shall these go 
among the upright and pure in heart, or shall 
their lot be among the degraded and miserable ? 
Questions like these, which must each returning 
day occur to the mind of the parent, are not such 
as convey happiness to his soul ; for happiness, 
in a great measure, depends on the fulfilment of 
our good desires, or their certainty ; but here, all 
is uncertainty ; all is doubt. Does the child have 
within it such a source of thoughts, that convey 
so little happiness to the soul ? No, far from it ; 
heedless of the future, or heeding it only to re- 
gard its bright visions, (for experience has not 
yet taught it that, like the will-o'-the-ivisp, these 
visions recede on approaching them,) it laughs 
still, though the heart of the parent be heavy, 
yet, concealing its grief with a smile, to cheer 
the child in its sports. Thus is it with the pa- 
rent ; thus with the child ; the happiness of the 



SELECTIONS. 139 

one is secured, while the other is indulging in 
doubts and fears. But his business, independent 
of his family, also has its cares and troubles, giv- 
ing him even much less happiness than they ; 
and let me add, this, his business, occupies the 
greater portion of his time. I am not one of 
those who believe that perfect happiness is to be 
the lot of any man in this world ; but believe, 
with Dr. Dewey, that man is formed rather to 
perform a duty, than enjoy perfect happiness — 
which, though most persons seek it, yet who 
finds? — that duty to be performed, whether it 
imparts happiness in the performance or not ; 
and it oft-times happens, that it does not. 

From the cares of life, from the performance 
of these duties, the child is, in a great measure, 
exempt. — Why ? It has not reached an age 
when they may be said to belong to it, and con- 
sequently does not meet them ; and the parents 
take its cares to themselves. To the man of an 
enlarged mind, I will acknowledge, there is much 
of pleasure to be derived from reflection, and the 
contemplation of works of mighty genius ; but 
there are sad reflections to be derived from the 
historic page, or the books of the philosopher, as 
well as pleasing thoughts. To the lover of free- 
dom, to the ardent patriot, what source of greater 
unhappiness than that page which records some 



140 SELECTIONS. 

act destructive of his liberty, or the liberties of 
those bound to him by the strongest ties of sym- 
pathy? To the philanthropist, what source of 
greater unhappiness than that page which records 
the destruction of thousands by the iron arm of 
war, — the cruelty of some tyranny or despotism 
— showing at once how man can be influenced 
by the Avild fury of his passions, to deeds of the 
darkest dye ? These are sources of reflection far 
from being happy ones ; for though the man of 
these States may, as he reads of these, thank 
11 high heaven " that our government is not like 
those ; still, though that may be a pleasing re- 
flection for a moment, he will be led to review 
her institutions, and the state of society on which 
they depend, and there find many things over 
which to lament ; he will then find that the pas- 
sions which influenced men in former days, con- 
tinue to influence them now, however much 
the show of them may be modified by time or 
fashion. 



SELECTIONS. 141 



THE STREAM OF TENDENCIES. 

Whither is the stream of tendencies ? To 
what are we hastening ? As T review the course 
of history, it seems to me the world is hastening 
to some great event ; or rather, great events are 
taking place, or rapidly hastening to their con- 
summation. The light of a new era seems burst- 
ing upon us, which is fast increasing to meridian 
splendor. 

He who reflects upon the pages of history, 
will perceive that the world has ever been pro- 
gressing ; though perhaps that progress may not 
always have been as rapid as in the present age, 
in that which, both politically and morally, tends 
to give man his correct station : to make him know 
and appreciate his high destiny, and inspire him 
with a noble benevolence and disinterestedness. 
Selfishness has long been the ruling spirit in the 
affairs of men ; but each generation, as it passes 
away, does and will perceive that it has less and 
less influence ; and men will more and more, 
each successive age, pay regard to that command 
which contains within it the germs of all civiliza- 
tion, and is man's surest guide of conduct, " thou 



142 SELECTIONS. 

shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." It is the 
lack of the principle of universal benevolence 
inculcated ill this command, which has been the 
cause of almost all the horrors recorded in the 
pages of history. From the earliest periods, we 
have seen the selfishness of governments, some- 
times shown in the despotism of a single person, 
sometimes in that of the many. Before the Chris- 
tian era, the religion of the people, their habits 
and dispositions, and their idolatry, directly en- 
couraged it ; since that period, it has, to the pres- 
ent time, been giving way, slowly indeed, to 
nobler convictions — though at times it would 
seem that better sentiments had no room in the 
human heart ; yet each revolution, each dark age, 
has more clearly developed their necessity. For- 
merly, nations, as individuals — they appear to 
have been but as individuals, since the will of 
one person declared their action — were guided 
only by the impulse of the moment, as they were 
governed by feelings of revenge, ambition, ava- 
rice, or fear. Did a nation deem itself insulted, 
or did another seem to interpose between it and 
its base desires, war or other injury was at once 
determined upon by its rulers, without consulting 
the interests of its neighbors, any further than 
they might be made subservient to their own 
purposes ; they scarce consulted their own sub- 



SELECTIONS. 143 

jects further than to inquire if they were able 
to carry out their views. Gradually this has 
been, and is changing. The truth is becoming 
more and more apparent, that men are " created 
equal, and endowed by their Creator with certain 
unalienable rights." Men feel more and more 
forcibly that they have a common interest. No 
great event takes place, but truth is developed, 
brighter and brighter. The world is not now, as 
centuries since, enveloped in darkness. People 
are not now slaves to ignorance ; but they have 
progressed in knowledge, and they demand that 
principles of government should be made to con- 
form to that progress. Enlightened governments 
are no more to consult merely their own inte- 
rest, but to learn that the interest of the people 
is to be their guide of conduct ; that man has no 
natural authority over his fellow man ; and that 
their only proper power is such as is granted them 
by the governed, to be exercised for their sole 
benefit. As we look upon the various govern- 
ments of the age, do we not see that they are ap- 
proaching nearer and nearer this important state ? 
Have not France and England particularly shown 
it in their legislation during the past century ? 
Have not the other governments of Europe been 
drawing nearer the same liberal principle ? Or 
if they have not, has not their legislation shown 



144 SELECTIONS. 

that their people are coming to the resolution 
that such shall be the case ? If France have for- 
tified Paris, it will prove but a weak struggle to 
resist that which will, sooner or later, weaken its 
improper power, and disrobe it of those habili- 
ments which might better become a darker age ? 
No ! the armaments of war have no longer their 
former power ; public opinion has become a far 
more potent instrument. 

It is believed by men who have considered the 
subject, (indeed, every newspaper bears on its 
face the evidence,) that the present aristocratic 
governments of Europe must, in a great degree, 
if not entirely, before many centuries pass away, 
yield to the wishes of their subjects, and give 
place to forms, acknowledging the will of the ma- 
jority, instead of holding all power in the hands 
of the few. The rulers of other countries and 
their subjects have long been directing their gaze 
towards the government of the United States ; 
they have watched with eagerness the workings 
of that constitution formed upon the democratic 
principle of "equal rights and equal justice." 
More than threescore years have passed away 
since our government was formed ; and, under 
its operations, the people have from time to time 
effected, in peace, such changes, such revolutions, 
as, with other nations, would have called forth 



SELECTIONS. 145 

faction after faction, and host on host, in deadly- 
strife for the supremacy. Why this difference ? 
The one system of government places no reliance, 
no confidence, in the great mass ; and, with the 
other, it is only the confidence placed in the ma- 
jority that sustains it. Do the majority here wish 
a change in their laws or the administration of 
them, the peaceable deposite of the ballot effects 
that change, which, under an aristocratic system, 
could only be produced by appeal to arms. Sub- 
jects of other governments have watched these 
things with jealousy ; they, not unnaturally, deem 
that they also are capable of governing them- 
selves. But a few years may pass by, ere that 
confidence will be obtained, either by force or 
voluntary concession, and that aristocratic spirit 
give place to a more democratic benevolence ; 
for changes must take place in the political world, 
corresponding to the progress of the mass in 
knowledge, and their appreciation of their rights. 
We may not, indeed, suppose these things will 
always be effected in blood, for I believe we have 
approached an age, the general spirit of which is 
opposed to these strifes in such entire opposition 
to all benevolent feelings ; yet, if war be neces- 
sary to their accomplishment, war will come ; 
— but truth will prevail; its march is onward. 
In the general progress of nations towards the 



146 SELECTIONS. 

knowledge and dissemination of truth and liberal 
principles, the United States have, since they 
were formed into a government, been first and 
foremost. Shall they, henceforth, retain that 
advanced position ? 



SELECTIONS. 147 



HAPPINESS. 

Tell me not that the grand object of man's 
pursuit in this world is happiness ! True, it 
makes an excellent theory, but every day's expe- 
rience proves its hollo wness. Look abroad upon 
the world ; cast your eyes upon the multitudes 
that throng our busy streets ; each person, with 
a jealous disposition, regarding only himself, and 
jostling all others that in any manner impede his 
way, and tell me, if you can, that happiness is 
the grand search of mankind. The very nature 
of happiness is inconsistent with the pursuits of 
most men. Can his object be happiness who 
toils incessantly, month after month, ransacking in 
the most painful manner book after book, to 
procure that wherewith to satisfy his ambitious 
aspirations for fame ? Can the merchant seek 
happiness in his life of excitement, laboring all 
the day long for years, alternately perplexed with 
fears and hopes, lest his schemes should fail, 
and whom the midnight lamp still finds poring 
over his ledgers and day-books with compressed 
lips and pale looks ? Can happiness be the ob- 
ject of his pursuit, who regards not the charms 



148 SELECTIONS. 

of life, heeds not the voice of friends, but, 
clad in filth and wretchedness, wanders through 
the streets, picking up whatever can be sold for 
a penny, and hoards the produce of this miserable 
toil in secret, that in secret the miser may gloat 
over his ill-gotten wealth ? How little like hap- 
piness do we see in these ! And is it not the 
same with all other classes, excepting, perhaps, a 
few solitary instances ? 

Now, in what does happiness consist ; or what 
is it that confers happiness, that almost all miss 
it ? A benevolent, contented disposition. But 
with whom do these rest ? Who, as he looks 
around the world, views the habits of his friends 
or looks into his own heart, can answer ? Who 
strive to be contented or benevolent truly ? The 
politician cannot be contented until he has risen 
from the lowest station to the highest office, 
and. then he is discontented because he can go 
no farther. The merchant is discontented be- 
cause he has not money, and cannot make it so 
fast as he could wish. So with the miser ; and 
so with almost all else, whatever the trade or 
profession. Those in power are unhappy be- 
cause their power is limited ; and those who 
have none, complain for that reason. But dis- 
content is not the only passion that renders men 
unhappy, for invariably it also brings with it 



SELECTIONS. 149 

envy, and thus each one looks with a jealous eye 
on his neighbor, deeming him more happy than 
himself; while, in fact, that neighbor regards 
him with like feelings. Were happiness truly 
man's pursuit, each one would strive to be con- 
tent with what he has, whether of money or 
power. There are some, no doubt, who approach 
nearer to the enjoyment of happiness than others, 
and they are those, in my humble opinion, who 
have the most vanity in their composition. 

I know that, in so writing, I am not writing 
exactly as very many good persons think ; still 
I cannot help coinciding with the doctor in 
Ward's Fielding, "that vanity, as it reigns in the 
heart and controls the actions, is one of the 
greatest of all contributors to the happiness of 
men in general ;" prevailing, of course, to a 
greater extent in some persons than in others. 
We can scarcely analyze an action or a saying, 
but we find vanity at the bottom to suggest it. 
Where nought would seem able to give pleasure 
to one, vanity will fill him with perfect, complete 
happiness. In the all-absorbing contemplation 
of himself, thoughts of the rest of the world are 
shut out, and thus one of the greatest sources of 
misery cut off : for if a vain person be not admir- 
ed, he does not perceive it ; or, if he do, admires 
himself so much the more, that it makes up for 



150 SELECTIONS. 

all otherwise lost. It rarely happens that a vain 
person is not in good humor with all the world, 
and all the world likewise in good humor with 
him. He is well pleased with the world, because, 
though it should be so, he rarely perceives that 
it is not in good humor with him ; and the 
world is in good humor with his vanity, because 
it makes amusement for it. 

How shall we describe the pleasures of the 
vain person ? He is independent, and little ha- 
rassed by cares of other men of the world, whe- 
ther for wealth or knowledge. Novels constitute 
his literature, because they require no exertion to 
peruse, and they are never apt to trouble one with 
thought. With others, the more they learn, the 
more they wish to learn j the more they study, 
the more discontented they become. Not so with 
him. His book is left at any time without the 
least inconvenience. How contented is he with 
his figure too ! See him as he approaches. 
What a bright smile sits on his face, — his 
mouth expanded just sufficient to form a most 
bewitching dimple in the cheek, or expose, when 
he laughs, in the most captivating manner, just 
enough of the pearly teeth to show their beauty ! 
When he looks in a mirror, how satisfied is he to 
think he is truly the " glass of fashion and the 
mould of form !" There is not a particle of dress 



SELECTIONS. 151 

about him that he does not admire. He feels far 
happier when he has tied his rich cravat as it 
should be tied, or when he has adjusted his locks in 
the most becoming style, than the man of learning 
does when he has solved some difficult problem, 
or answered some abstruse question in science. 

Where can be found so agreeable a personage 
as the vain one ? Whose brow so lighted up 
with smiles ? Who so ready to join in the merry 
laugh ? Ah ! when I have entered a room filled 
with ladies and gentlemen, where bashfulness or 
fear has confined me to my seat and tied my 
tongue ; yet, when I wanted to make myself 
and others happy, how have I envied the vain 
one of the party, who going from place, kept all 
in a roar of laughter at his exquisite follies ! How 
have I envied his confidence in himself ! How 
have I wished that I could make myself so 
agreeable to all, that I might enjoy myself as 
well ! Your vain person always has some little 
egotistical joke on hand with which to amuse 
you, or at least himself. See with what glisten- 
ing eyes he gazes on that rose stuck in his but- 
ton-hole. How they sparkle as he goes about 
relating the charms of the young lady who pre- 
sented it to him ! Was ever mortal happier than 
he ? He is never at a loss for words or anec- 
dotes ; for if all things else fail, he will regale 



152 SELECTIONS. 

you by the half hour with eulogiums on the ex- 
cellent fit of his coat, or pants, or some new knot 
with which he has tied his cravat — showing 
you excellencies that you never before dreamed 
of. He has a thousand little nameless graces, 
or artless tricks, to play off, which all serve to 
amuse you and gratify him. What would you 
not give to be as pleased with yourself ? 

I might continue to enumerate these sources 
of his happiness, almost ad infinitum ; but ob- 
serve, — watch all his manoeuvres, all his mo- 
tions, from his most magnificent strut through 
the fashionable streets, to the most careless 
glance he, from time to time, throws over his 
well-setting clothes, and tell me if of all created 
beings, there be one who enjoys more happiness 
than the vain man. 

Let it not be thought, though, that the vain 
person is entirely free from care and unhappiness ; 
for it will sometimes happen that the bright pol- 
ish of his boot will be sullied, and the corn on 
his toe a little hurt, by the unlucky tread of some 
unlucky wight, who minds not how he walks. 
He may sometimes run against some more un- 
happy laborer, and thus have the lustre of his 
coat dimmed by dust. These, I say, will some- 
times provoke him a little, and disturb his equan- 



SELECTIONS. 153 

imity for a time, but still his vanity soon enables 
him to recover himself again. 

O, happy vain one — comparatively free from 
the sorrows of those who are only engaged in 
the pursuit of wealth or fame ! 



11 



154 SELECTIONS. 



NOVEL READING. 

Probably, far the greater portion of books read 
at the present day consists of novels. Such be- 
ing the case, who can tell the immense influence 
these works have in forming the mind and char- 
acter of a people ! No book is ever read and 
understood by a person, without some impression 
having been left upon his mind by it, after the 
perusal ; and as the conduct of a person has its 
source in the impressions existing on the mind, 
so is it influenced by the works that give those 
impressions. It is often wondered, why novels 
and most works of fiction are so much read, espe- 
cially by the young, whose attention should be 
turned to works of a more substantial nature. 
The secret, I believe, lies in the natural feelings 
of sympathy implanted deep in every heart. 
Sympathy is the prevailing emotion of our nature, 
and in it nearly all the other emotions take their 
rise. We cannot behold our fellow beings in dis- 
tress, and withhold all sympathy from them, with- 
out libelling our nature, and rendering us un- 
worthy the great impress of a noble humanity ; 
for, by so doing, we should abuse the most heav- 



SELECTIONS. 155 

enly attribute of our being. We cannot behold 
the successful struggles of our fellow men in 
paths of honor, or their virtuous triumph over 
evil, without a glow of satisfaction springing up 
within us ; and it is this sympathy extending to 
all, that the novelist works upon. His characters 
are such as enter deeply into this feeling or emo- 
tion. There is no passion deeper rooted in our 
nature, or with which our sympathies are stronger, 
than that of love ; and it is this that forms the 
main feature of nearly all our novels. We feel 
an interest in the lovers, the hero and heroine, that 
does not extend to any of the other characters ; 
that is, if the love be depicted, as it should be, a 
pure and heavenly passion, having its foundation 
in sympathetic virtues ; if it be not thus depicted, 
we become disgusted with the characters, and 
our regard is turned to those who represent virtue 
as the source of their actions ; and of such there 
must be some to render any book palatable to a 
mind at all refined. And this, let it be remarked 
in passing, is a strong proof, that there is in man 
an inherent love of whatever is good, since the 
mind, not vitiated by bad habits, revolts at the 
contemplation of characters entirely bad. But, 
our sympathies are not only given to the lovers 
of a novel, they also extend to other persons, as 
their portraits touch " some chord in unison" with 



156 SELECTIONS. 

what we read in our hearts; we laugh with those 
who are gay, and weep with those who are sor- 
rowful ; while our indignation is stirred against 
those who are vicious and have bad designs. 

This is illustrated in Dickens's beautiful story 
of the " Curiosity Shop." How strongly are our 
sympathies drawn towards little "Nell" and 
". Kit ! " How has the writer made us enter into 
all her joys and sorrows ! We weep when she 
weeps, or at the many trials of her gentle virtues, 
and we rejoice when she triumphs over danger, 
as though she were some dear personal friend ; 
and as we would with such an one, I had almost 
said, do we finally take leave of her at the grave. 
The " old man," too, and the " schoolmaster," 
how do we pity the one, and enter into the vari- 
ous feelings of the other ! We enjoy the eccen- 
tricities of the " glorious Apollos," equally as 
much as they enjoy themselves ; and we feel the 
greatest detestation for the "dwarf," and the 
" Brass" family, being gratified when they meet 
their just deserts, and " Mrs. Q,uilp " is free from 
her terrible bondage. The impressions obtained 
from the perusal of the " Curiosity Shop" are 
most beneficial. We derive from it better views 
of humanity, and our love for whatever is good 
and pure is confirmed, while we see pictured in 
a strong light the evils of bad habits, and of bad, 



SELECTIONS. 157 

unnatural vices. Throughout the whole work 
we converse, as it were, with the author ; we see 
the impress of his mind on every page ; we feel 
that there is in every line an appeal to the softer 
graces of our nature, to our love of virtue, to all 
our better feelings. There is no endeavor to 
create a laugh at an expense of the degradation 
of the mind ; no endeavor to make vice appear 
alluring. The author, himself, appears to stand 
before us, and point out the paths of pleasantness 
and peace, persuading us by gentle reasoning, and 
beautiful examples, that enlist our warmest sym- 
pathies, to walk therein. The whole object of 
the work seems to be to make its readers better, 
to give them better views of humanity. 

But, how far from having this object, are most 
of those novels that constitute so large a portion 
of our literature ; and, on this score, forming as 
they do, in so great a degree, the character of a 
people, what have not novelists to answer for ! 
The object of most writers of fiction is, to fill 
their pockets, and obtain a little notoriety or 
doubtful fame, by giving amusement ; hesitating 
or caring little as to the kind of amusement, if it 
so be that their object is accomplished. Thus, 
books are given to the reading world, the char- 
acters in which are endowed with a cunning, a 
low wit, or a lax morality, deleterious to the 



158 SELECTIONS. 

reader in a high degree ; destroying nearly all 
the finer perceptions of the mind, the delicate 
sensibility of parity and modesty, the apprecia- 
tion of the beautiful, not only in the moral, but 
also in the natural world, and enveloping the 
mind in gross sensuality. 

Among this class of writers, who pander to 
vitiated tastes, I place Captain Marryatt, whose 
works have greater influence as they are more 
popular than those of his imitators. Possessing 
a knowledge of what is pleasing to a depraved 
relish, and captivating to a weak mind, he has 
set before such, characters that enlist their sym- 
pathies. In novels we are, as it were, the com- 
panions of the characters, their intimate friends, 
their personal attendants ; ever near them and 
ever feeling the influence of their example. We 
follow them through a long series of events and 
years, share all their dangers and their triumphs, 
and continually listen to their persuasions to 
either what is good or wrong. They stand to us 
in the light of actual companions, and our sym- 
pathies are with them as such. If continual con- 
tact with the vicious, in the ordinary walks 
of life, will destroy the natural refinement jf 
our nature, why may not the same consequences 
follow their influence in the closet, where the 
mind is wholly given up to them, with no exter- 



SELECTIONS. 159 

nal objects to attract the attention ? The same 
consequences to the mind do follow, though per- 
haps not with the same outward appearance. 
TJhe parent may congratulate himself that his 
son is surrounded by none but those whose influ- 
ence is good, and who will encourage him in vir- 
tuous paths j but if he, at the same time, allow 
him to store his mind with vicious novels, that 
influence is almost wholly lost, and he has little 
reason for congratulation. The brother may joy 
that a younger brother's or a sister's companions 
are refined in manners and gentle in character : 
but to what purpose, if from the library he carry 
to that sister or that brother, bad novels, whose 
influence is greater than that of their companions, 
as their companionship is longer and more fre- 
quent ? Who would wish, through long years, 
to have an actual Peter Simple or a Midshipman 
Easy for his associate ? What really virtuous 
mind would endure their company ? Their fel- 
lowship would be a very great evil ; they would 
lead one far, very far, from the truly honest walks 
of life. If, then, their company out of the closet 
would be so injurious, how can they otherwise 
than have a dangerous influence in it ? One can- 
not, then, be too careful in the selection of the 
novels he allows himself to read j every page 
read, leaves its impression on the mind, and no 



160 SELECTIONS. 

such impression is ever forgotten. These, and 
other considerations, and there are many others, 
should lead one to indulge but little in this kind 
of reading. The time now devoted to them by 
the young, and those especially just entering the 
period of manhood, such as generally compose 
our literary societies, should rather be given to 
the pursuit of useful knowledge — of wisdom. 

The years of life have been compared to the 
pages of the Sybil, and wisdom to their contents. 
The price of knowledge, of wisdom, is patient 
and persevering study. If we refuse to give the 
price at first, and the Sybil again presents herself 
before us, we find she comes with fewer pages, 
but still the same price ; if we refuse still, when 
she again comes, it is yet with fewer pages, but 
nevertheless their contents can only be obtained 
at the same cost ; if we this time accept the con- 
ditions, how much do we find we have lost from 
not complying with them at first, when the leaves, 
or years of life, were many ! 



SELECTIONS. 161 



INFLUENCE OF CHARACTER. 

How often in moments of despondency, has 
the thought been sighed — who am I, that I 
should live ? — why was I formed ? I have no 
influence over the world's affairs — why was I 
created ? I do not mean to say that one per- 
son has as great an influence as another in this 
world, for persons in different situations, or pur- 
suing different objects, will exercise a different 
amount of influence; but that no one is without 
his influence — that there are none who have no 
control over this world's history, its secret, if not, 
indeed, its written history. No one lives but to 
some purpose, and to accomplish this purpose he 
must have some influence. 

The mind is ever alive to impressions, to the 
action of mind ; and while we are animated with 
passions, with the power of feeling and acting, 
so long must we not only be alive to the influ- 
ence of others, and surrounding objects and cir- 
cumstances, but so long must we continue to 
influence. While love can breathe around its 
endearing charms, lighting the eye with its smile 
of pleasure, kindling our hearts with warm affec- 



162 SELECTIONS. 

tions, and implanting within us the desire, as we 
have the power to please, while fierce, unholy 
passions can dwell within our breast, inspiring 
us with hate and fury, throwing around all their 
own poisons, so long have we the power of influ- 
encing. As long as we have the power of reason- 
ing, and of persuading a single person to follow 
our designs, or desist from pursuing some object 
of his own, so long we exert an influence, nay, a 
great, important influence in this world. Men 
generally give to the world the color of their own 
minds ; but that mind is often colored by the 
lightest tints, the most trifling things ; and if by 
means of a word acting upon it, which has cost 
us neither trouble nor thought, we have per- 
suaded its possessor from a course of action, or 
led him to pursue one, we have exercised an 
influence which, though it may seem so slight 
as to pass unnoted by us, even when sighing for 
it, yet may control the destinies of a life ; and as 
mind and soul are eternal, of an eternity. A few 
words spoken by us, perhaps in jest, may contain 
a principle which another may adopt as the ruling 
motive of his life. Our careless remark of to-day, 
may be another's watchword to-morrow. Have 
we then no influence ? 

We cannot mingle constantly in a certain soci- 
ety without exercising some control over it, wfcich 



SELECTIONS. 163 

may be seen, in some degree, in the respect given 
to our ideas and suggestions, or in the passions 
stirred against us. Our greatest influence is, per- 
haps, over our intimate personal friends. One 
cannot be intimate with another, without either 
strengthening or changing in some degree his 
habits of thinking and acting ; for the defer- 
ence paid to opinions and persuasions is, in many- 
cases, a test of friendship. One is continually- 
suggesting to a friend new ideas, and guiding his 
thoughts in a new direction ; and as, often, 
impressions which are once made on the mind 
are never afterwards obliterated therefrom, so 
there they ever remain, to influence it and the 
conduct. The character of a person can often be 
told (as a certain proverb indicates) by that of 
his companions ; for he will either lead them, or 
they will carry him with them. Who does 
not feel the influence of his intimate friend ? 
How often do we yield to the persuasions of that 
friend ! How does the eye receive an additional 
gleam, emit a brighter glance, the heart beat with 
a quicker pulse, and a smile illumine the counte- 
nance, as he is seen approaching, telling in the 
strongest language his power and influence over 
us ! We are ready to yield to him in almost all 
things ; we scarce form an opinion, or determine 
upon any act without consulting him. As his 



164 SELECTIONS. 

influence over us, so ours over him, or those to 
whom we stand in a position similar with his to 
us. Nor is this a transitory influence, passing 
away with the view of the person, but it extends 
through all after life ; and as the character formed 
from these influences is good or bad, so will be 
the result of its action on others. If we change 
the course of a single life, or confirm one in fol- 
lowing the path he has marked out for himself, 
we have exercised an influence greater than can 
be estimated ; we may have brought to light, or 
crushed, a spirit whose name ages may, or might 
have pronounced with gratitude and love, or the 
bitter accents of hate and disgust. How then 
can we have no influence ? 

Shakspeare, lolling in some cool grot on the 
banks of Avon, idling away in silent revery the 
sunny hours, may have sighed, "I have no influ- 
ence," and wondered while he just breathed the 
sigh, for what he was created, or why he lingered 
on earth uselessly. But how many minds have, 
notwithstanding, been moulded by him, who 
was, perchance, first led to write by some inti- 
mate friend, or the chance remark of some random 
acquaintance, whose name no page of history 
records, though so great a benefactor of the 
human race. Such may have been the sad, silent 
thought of some young man, as he contemplated 



SELECTIONS. 165 

his then position, who in after years became one 
of that band of pilgrims whose remembrance the' 
generations of men, through all time, shall cherish 
with respect and veneration. Such may have 
been the murmur of Franklin, as, dissatisfied with 
himself, he bent over his brother's form ; but of 
whom Lord Brougham said, at a later period, 
"one of the most remarkable men, certainly, of 
our times, as a politician, or of any age, as a 
philosopher, was Franklin ; who also stands alone 
in combining together these two characters, the 
greatest that man can sustain ; and in this, that 
having borne the first part in enlarging science 
by one of the greatest discoveries ever made, he 
bore the second part in founding one of the great- 
est empires." 

Though I do not anticipate that any of us will 
ever be Shakspeares. Pilgrims, or Franklins, yet 
the lesson may teach us never to despond, and 
certainly never to be careless concerning the kind 
of influence we throw around us ; for our influ- 
ence for good or evil, may exceed our expecta- 
tions as much as theirs exceeded their expecta- 
tions. We may have no visible ascendency over 
the mass, or the multitudes continually passing 
by us ; but we know that we have, in some 
degree, a controlling or guiding power over the 
personal friends and acquaintances who surround 



166 SELECTIONS. 

us ; and to exert that power aright, may well 
call into action our highest, noblest energies. To 
have led one mind to pursue a good path, to have 
roused one mind to ennobling thought and honor- 
able action, that would otherwise have followed 
a sluggishly inactive course in regard to moral, 
mental or physical abilities, is cause for lasting 
joy. To have caused, either through design or 
carelessness, one person to follow a wrong course ; 
to have prevented one, either by the silent, though 
not unfelt influence of our actions, or by persua- 
sion, from employing profitably those faculties 
wherewith the Creator has endowed him, is cause 
for lasting sorrow. 



SELECTIONS. 167 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

Another year has gone by, and been added 
to the chronicles of time. Who can contemplate 
the events of the past twelve months without 
benefit — without feeling that his time, in very 
many instances, might have been spent to much 
greater profit to himself and the world ? As we 
look back to its commencement, so short seems 
the time that has elapsed, that all its events ap- 
pear but as a vision. The seasons themselves 
have glided away almost imperceptibly. Spring, 
with its first opening buds and the lively carol of 
birds, — the beautiful new green verdure, that 
was wont to greet our eyes as we wandered forth 
to inhale the sweetness of the fresh air, — is 
gone ; and yet it seems but as a moment since it 
was here in all its beauty. Summer too, with 
all its loveliness, has departed. No more the 
sweet scent of its bright flowers, the gorgeous 
scenery of its landscapes, glowing in the light 
of a brilliant san, the refreshing coolness of its 
"breezy eves," with their softened lights and 
shades, and the merry parties of pleasure gayly 
gliding upon some gently flowing stream, to the 



16S SELECTIONS. 

sound of sweet music, charm our senses ; but all 
are gone, — " the last rose of summer " has faded. 
Yet we know not but ample compensation for 
these lost treasures was found in the delights of 
autumn, when the earth yielded up its fruits to 
increase the store of the happy, provident hus- 
bandman, for many scenes of joy and pleasure 
did it bring to pass ; and the gayeties of harvest 
time may well compare with those of any other 
season. It has also its natural beauties. What 
more beautiful than the countless dyes of autumn 
foliage ? If nature throws off her bright green, 
it is that she may assume a richer, and a mellow- 
er color. Then, too, the Indiaan summer, — what 
can exceed its delights ? What more beautiful 
than its clear blue sky, or the gorgeousness of its 
sunset — splendid accompaniments of the splendid 
drapery of earth ? The close of the year leads 
the contemplative mind into those musings which 
visit it at no other period ; melancholy, perhaps, 
yet pleasing, and inspiring the mind with those 
sentiments that had scarcely been entertained by 
it during the preceding year. Musings of the 
past ! — what a boundless field is the past for 
reflection! The more the mind dwells upon it, 
the farther is it led. From the contemplation of 
events relating to ourselves, we are led from the 
past year to preceding years, and other persons. 



SELECTIONS. 169 

Then it is we look upon the scenes of our 
younger days. The laugh and merry cry of 
those with whom we sat side by side at school, 
and with whom we oft chased the gay butterfly 
from flower to flower, roamed to pluck the first 
tender blossoms of sweet May, or the first fruits 
of summer, again dwell on our ears ; but, alas ! 
the heart echoes not to it, for the graver scenes 
of intervening years make us sad. We turn 
to trace the paths of those with whom Ave thus 
sported. Where are those once dear friends 
now? is the involuntary question. Who can 
tell ? How few of those once familiar faces do 
we now see ! New forms greet our eyes, and 
take the hand with apparent friendship, but few 
with whom we can sympathize, as we did with 
those friends of our earliest days. How differ- 
ently do the different periods of life, youth, 
manhood, and old age, view the close of the 
year ! To the youth just beginning to pour 
forth the treasures of his mind, another year past 
and gone seems but another barrier overcome 
that separated him from the glorious struggles of 
manhood, but which still reminds him that there 
are others yet remaining, and warns him to pre- 
pare to meet them ; bright visions float across 
his mind, which, when manhood approaches, 
are found to be but delusive phantoms. 
12 



170 SELECTIONS. 

It is then in manhood, we begin to reflect 
over the follies of the past, perceive the errors, 
passion or " mad ambition" led us into, and strive 
to correct them, and lay out better plans for the 
future. 

But to the old, the aged, the close of the year 
sends thoughts of the period, when their breath 
shall pass away like the sighing winds, true em- 
blem of departing life. The " sere and yellow 
leaf" of autumn reminds them, that their " me- 
lancholy days are come," and winter's fleecy 
mantle reminds them of the hoary whiteness of 
their own heads. Memory dwells on the recol- 
lections of the past, and plans for the future are 
no more laid out, to be pursued with the eager- 
ness of youth, or the determination of manhood ; 
but thoughts retire within themselves, to medi- 
tations of the end of life. 



SELECTIONS. 171 



ISABELLA THE FAIR. 

It was a sweet and beautiful morn ; nature 
was dressed in her holyday attire, and decked 
with opening flowers of all hues. The sun had 
never apparently shone so mild and bright j the 
sky never so blue before ; the birds were pouring 
forth their continual strain of praise and rejoicing ; 
all things seemed to have caught a spirit of joy 
and hilarity, and it would seem as if nought but 
joy and gratitude to the munificent bestower of 
the bounties, could reign in the heart of man. 
Yet far different were the feelings predominant in 
the minds of at least two persons on that beau- 
tiful morn. 

The first of May was the day on which the 
most splendid tournament that had been witnessed 
for a long period, was to take place under the 
eye of King John. The two persons before men- 
tioned, were Reginald de Montmorency and 
Philip de Barbarossa, who were this day to do 
battle against each other for the hand of Isabella 
of Anjou, otherwise Isabella the Fair. And well 
did she merit the appellation of " the fair ;" for 
of the many beauties that fluttered about the 



172 SELECTIONS. 

court of John, none could compare with Isabella. 
At an early age, she had been left an orphan ; 
and when her father died, he left it as his will, 
that when his daughter became of proper age, 
her hand should be given to him who would 
wield the best lance in her behalf. In the mean 
time, she had grown up under the eye of an 
aunt, at a distance from the court, and had there 
been taught all the graces and acquirements 
peculiar to her sex and the age. She was by 
nature of a retired disposition, and mild and gen- 
tle in her manners ; yet she held in esteem the 
martial exploits of the age, and it would have 
been very unnatural indeed, if she did not ; but 
she also disliked this manner of disposing of her 
hand and heart ; and of those who would pro- 
bably appear at the tournament to contest for her 
person, she feared none so much, or dreaded 
their victory, as Montmorency and Barbarossa. 
" Should either be victorious," sighed she, " I 
will appeal to them as knights of honor, that I 
may be released from the fate that awaits me ; 
surely, if they be men and gentlemen, they will 
hear me." But little did she know of either, if 
she thought such prayers would have effect on 
their hearts, hard as the mail that covered them. 
Montmorency and Barbarossa were reputed 
Europe's bravest knights, and as wielding her 



SELECTIONS. 173 

best lances. They had always been rivals since 
either had gained for himself a reputation with 
his lance j each wished to conquer the other, as 
neither could brook a rival in arms, and their 
hatred of each other was intense. They had met 
before at a tournament, but had come away even, 
neither having his high reputation diminished in 
the least. As they were brave, so were they also 
proud and haughty ; and holding in contempt 
those of less renown than themselves, thought 
only of meeting each other, anticipating the con- 
quest of the rest, as a matter of course. It was 
on the beautiful morn I have attempted before to 
describe, this tournament was to take place, and 
the space devoted to the spectators was filled 
long before the hour of tilting arrived. It was 
on the side of a large plain, at the foot of a row of 
hills, on which those who could not procure seats 
might stand and view the conflict. On a large 
covered platform, surrounded by his courtiers, 
stood King John, most gorgeously apparelled, 
smiling graciously on his friends, or joining their 
mirth at, perchance, some trick played on one 
he liked not; for John, though jealous of his 
power, and resentful of any breach of etiquette 
to him at most times, yet could not always con- 
ceal his natural feelings and passions j but his 
laugh was not long, for he almost instantly 



174 SELECTIONS. 

thought himself of his position, and resumed his 
stateliness of manner. Near him were those who 
well knew, by their flattery and obsequiousness, 
how to gain a monarch's favor ; while at a dis- 
tance stood those whose boast was, that by the 
sword and lance alone would they win favors, — 
all clad in bright dresses of shining steel and 
cloth of bright hues. On the opposite side of 
the lists was placed the fair Isabella, simply, yet 
richly dressed. She was the " bright particular 
star " that attracted all eyes, the consciousness of 
which made her heart beat high, and gave her a 
color that rivalled in beauty the rich tents of the 
new rose. In her actions, nevertheless, she was 
easy and dignified ; and when she moved, moved 
with a grace that charmed the eyes of all that 
saw her. It was but for a moment she gave way 
to the excitement of the scene, for soon a pale- 
ness came over her brow as she thought why she 
was there, and into whose hands she was likely 
soon to fall ; but recovering herself, she assumed 
a calm resignation to her fate. On her either 
hand were all the beauties of John's court, in the 
most costly attires that money could command, 
presenting altogether such a brilliant assemblage 
of beauty and wealth as is rarely to be seen. On 
each side of the royal pavilions were arranged 
seats for the more common people, who, in their 



SELECTIONS. 175 

different attires, presented a singular-looking 
mass, and who were kept in order by numerous 
guards, who scrupled not to prick with their 
lances any who were riotously disposed. Alto- 
gether a glorious spectacle was presented to the 
eye of the beholder. Old and young mingled 
together promiscuously. Here might be seen an 
old knight, who had wielded lance in his youth 
bravely and stoutly, his eye glistening with de- 
light, as he beheld the warlike preparations, and 
regretting that he could no longer take his wont- 
ed place in the lists ; and by his side a fair boy, 
wishing he were old enough to be there also. 
There were also merry maids, laughing, smiling 
and chatting with their swains, all free from care, 
and wishing for the tilting to be commenced. 
The signal was given for silence, and the knights 
began to prepare for the lists. At the sound of 
the trumpet, a herald stepped forward, and during 
the silence that followed, proclaimed the rules of 
the lists, which were not to be broken under the 
penalty of the offender being deprived of his 
spurs, and incurring the severe displeasure of his 
majesty. These having been declared, and the 
accustomed largess bestowed on the herald and 
other attendants, the herald again stepped for- 
ward, and proclaimed that Don Philip de Bar- 
barossa, Knight of the Cross and Member of the 



176 SELECTIONS. 

Legion of Honor, bid defiance to all, and chal- 
lenged any who might be so bold as to dispute 
his superiority in arms, and consequent title to 
the hand of the fair Isabella ; and at the same 
time threw down his glove to any who dared 
take it up. Instantly a number of knights start- 
ed to accept the challenge, but first and foremost 
was Montmorency, Knight Templar, in whose 
behalf the gage was accepted, and whose eyes 
glistened with fierce and indignant glances as 
Barbarossa gave his insulting challenge. Each 
knight then selected his lance, and with a single 
leap threw himself on his steed, without aid of 
stirrup, and rode round the lists to show his 
skill in horsemanship to the spectators, who fre- 
quently testified their admiration by loud bursts 
of applause at some skilful manoeuvre. Don 
Barbarossa having ridden round the lists and 
made his obeisance to the King, then went in 
front of Lady Isabella, to receive her smile of 
encouragement, which she, according to the cus- 
tom of the times, was obliged to give ; — but it was 
a cold smile, it came not from the heart. Mont- 
morency having followed in the same manner, 
each took his station at opposite ends of the space, 
looking like statues of shining steel. They were 
both tall and well made, and mounted on powerful 
chargers. " En avance" cried the marshal, and 



SELECTIONS. 177 

setting spurs to their chargers, they dashed for- 
ward at a furious rate, and met in the centre 
with a force that made the hills ring again with 
noise. Each had aimed at the breast-plate of the 
other, and so faithfully were their lances directed, 
that they hit where they aimed, and splintering, 
made their horses recoil with the shook. With 
suppressed exclamations of hate and defiance, 
they returned to their positions at the head of 
the lists. 

New lances were supplied them, and again, at 
the trumpet's sound, they rushed forward. This 
time, Montmorency directed the point of his lance 
to Barbarossa's helmet, who nevertheless did not 
alter the direction of his own lance, which struck 
the centre of Montmorency's shield, and again 
splintered it, but without unhorsing him ; while 
Montmorency, having hit his helmet fairly, Bar- 
barossa could not withstand the almost super- 
human force, and fell to the ground. A shout 
arose from the crowd at Montmorency's success, 
as they ever liked to see a well-won fight. Mont- 
morency having been declared victor, received 
the approbation of his majesty, and in turn threw 
down his gage, in a manner similar to the first, 
to any who might dare accept it ; and an ironical 
smile illuminated his features as he gave his 
challenge. It was accepted by one of the afore- 



178 SELECTIONS. 

mentioned knights, whose courage did not abate as 
he saw the renowned Barbarossafall; he thought 
only of the prize to be gained. But they were 
unequal to the task : for, one after another, they 
were unhorsed, and led away by their squires, 
till but one remained yet to try his fortunes. 
This was a young knight, whose appearance and 
demeanor, as he sat upon his high-spirited charger, 
attracted for him the good wishes and sympa- 
thies of the spectators, who rejoiced not at the 
success of the haughty and overbearing Montmo- 
rency, though they applauded his skill ; and most 
sincerely did Isabella smile upon him and wish 
him success, as he gracefully lowered the point 
of his lance and made obeisance. As he approach- 
ed that part of the field where King John was 
stationed, the king bade him reflect with whom 
he was to engage, and withdraw while he could ; 
but such was not the young knight's purpose ; 
for, not vouchsafing any reply, he returned to the 
head of the lists, and took his station. 

Montmorency had noticed the confident man- 
ner of the daring young stranger, who passed by 
the name of the fugitive knight, — the device on 
his shield being a knight on horseback, flying 
from his paternal castle ; and, not being willing 
to yield any advantages, he changed his tired 
horse for a fresh one, and also his lance. 






SELECTIONS. 179 

The signal was given by the herald, and they 
rushed forward. Each, this time, had striven to 
strike the other on the helmet, which they did, 
but without unhorsing either, though the stranger 
knight, while he splintered his lance, reeled in 
his seat. 

Montmorency noticed this, and doubted not, 
but at the next onset, he should serve him as he 
had served the rest ; and the other took good 
heed to select a tough lance for the next charge ; 
and Montmorency, also, was obliged to choose 
another ; for, on shaking his to try its strength, 
it snapped in his hand. 

The interest of the spectators was now intense, 
for they had not doubted but that the stranger 
knight would have fallen as the others ; and all 
felt interested in his hjgh bearing and noble man- 
ner — the maidens especially,- but they were 
obliged to keep silence. 

Onward again they start, swifter than the flight 
of the hawk when chasing its prey ; as the very 
horses seemed to have partaken of the spirits and 
energies of their riders. This time, the result of 
the rencontre was different, as both fell to the 
ground, while their horses were thrown back by 
the shock. 

"Alia!" muttered Montmorency, " is this 
upstart thus to serve the far-famed Montmoren- 



180 SELECTIONS. 

cy? S'death, no!" — as they both quickly 
sprung to their feet, and seized their battle-axes. 

" Look to thyself, young sir," exclaimed he, 
as he seized it. 

" E'en take care of thine own head," returned 
the other, as he received the furious attack of 
Montmorency with a coolness, and returned his 
blows with a force, that warned him he had to 
deal with no stranger to battle scenes. The 
blows flew swift, and with strength ; twice did 
Montmorency press the young stranger on his 
knees, and twice did he regain his feet, still ward- 
ing blows, and dealing others. At last Montmo- 
rency's blows began to grow more and more 
feeble, which the other perceiving, he redoubled 
his own exertions, and finally dealt him a blow, 
that felled him to the ground, breaking through 
his helmet of steel, and laying him as dead. The 
combat here ceased, and the stranger, wearied and 
fatigued, advanced, leaning on his squire, to the 
throne of John, who declared him victor, with evi- 
dent reluctance, for Montmorency was his favorite 
knight, since he could both fight and flatter. 

" Thou hast fought well, and deservest a fair 
lady's hand ; but before we bestow on thee the 
prize, to whom give we it? Rethinks thou 
should'st own a name." 

"I am" — and the knight drew himself up 



SELECTIONS. 181 

proudly, as he spoke — "I am Henri, called the 
brave, and friend and companion to the noble 
Richard, your brother, at whose side I have sal- 
lied against the Saracen." 

John trembled, as he ever did when his noble 
brother's name was mentioned, for it brought 
with it the remembrance of his wrongs. 

" 'Tis well," said he, "but I would see thy 
face before I bestow on thee the fair Isabella. 
Remove thy visor ; " for as yet, it had not been 
removed. 

The knight essayed to do so, but in vain ; and 
now, for the first time, blood was noticed flowing 
from under his helmet. His squire was the first 
to perceive it ; and quickly taking off his steel 
covering, no longer smooth and bright, but bat- 
tered and dented with blows, revealed his fea- 
tures, and at the same time it discovered a deep 
wound on the side of his head. At sight of those 
features John started, and those around laid hands 
on their swords, The knight stood motionless, 
regarding them only with a look of scorn and 
lofty pride. His looks showed him to be but 
young, yet there was in his dark eye and ex- 
panded brow, and the expression of his counte- 
nance, that which denoted a high and noble spirit 
of daring resolution. 

"Henri of Ravenswood," involuntarily ex- 



182 SELECTIONS. 

claimed John ; but recovering his self-possession, 
he bade him go dress his wound, and prepare to 
receive the fair Isabella. 

Meanwhile Montmorency's squire had removed 
him to his tent, where every exertion was made 
to recover him, and, at last, with success ; but 
his brow became clouded and dark, and he spoke 
fiercely as he demanded his victor's name. 

" Henri of Ravenswood," answered his squire. 

"S'death ! " cried he, and he grew furiously 
angry, as he gave order to prepare for a march. 

" But thy wounds," replied the squire. 

".Dastard, do as I bid thee ! " and Montmo- 
rency, in his fury, seized a baton, but his squire 
had vanished. Soon his charger was at the door 
of his tent ; and, regardless of his wounds, after 
having counted out his ransom for his horse and 
arms, Montmorency, followed by his squire, was 
swiftly pursuing his way to France ; and, it is 
said, never saw England more. John's surprise 
and astonishment, when he sent to inquire con- 
cerning his wounds, to find him gone, may well 
be imagined. 

During this time, the fair cause of these things 
preserved her accustomed presence of mind ; and 
her agitation could only be seen in the quick 
changjng color, as either of the combatants gained 
an advantage, or dealt a heavier blow than com- 



SELECTIONS. 183 

mon. When the combat was decided, a sickness 
came upon her, as she thought she was now 
another's, whose she knew not, though glad it 
was not Montmorency conquered ; and she re- 
tired, as soon as the herald had given notice of 
the contest of yeomen, wrestlers, &c., on the 
morrow, to take place in the presence of his 
majesty King John, with a sad heart, amid the 
gay and joyous assemblage around her, who 
seemed to envy her the daring young knight. 

" King John, forsooth ! " exclaimed a hardy 
yeoman, as the herald finished ; " not while the 
noble Richard lives ; " and a cheer from those 
that heard it, greeted the speaker 

That eve was Isabella to be bestowed upon 
the young Henri ; and as darkness began to over- 
shadow the place, the long hall, fitted for the 
occasion, began to be filled with those invited to 
witness the ceremony. At the appointed time, 
John, followed by a few favorites, and the victo- 
rious knight, armed as from the field, except that 
his armor was now bright and polished, entered at 
one end of the hall ; while the fair Isabella, sur- 
rounded by the court beauties, entered at the 
other. John seated himself on a rich seat or 
throne, acknowledging by a haughty bow, the 
cheers that greeted his entrance, with Isabella on 
one side of him, pale with emotion, and Henri 



1S4 SELECTIONS. 

on the other. A priest in rich robes was about 
to commence the ceremony, when Henri ex- 
claimed, " Hold ! sir priest. Fair lady, thou art 
free ; the hand that I receive, must be the heart's 
willing tribute, not the forced one of circum- 
stances. I only ask the beauteous flower that 
decks thy brow ; when I have won the heart, 
then shall it be mine." As he spoke, he took the 
flower with a noble grace, and placed it on his 
crest, and his voice was rich and full of melody. 
Turning from her grateful face to John's aston- 
ished eyes, his tones grew deeper and stronger, 
and his lofty brow grew dark, as he said, " Prince 
John, beware ; for Richard lives, and yet is 
king ; " and he drew his sword as he spoke ; and 
ere John could recover from his astonishment at 
the boldness of the knight, he had vanished 
through a side door, warding, as he went, some 
of the score of blows directed to him, and receiv- 
ing others on his coat of mail ; and a moment 
after, the tramp of his steed's swift feet was 
heard on the pavement, as he left the hall behind 
him. 

" To horse, and bring me the traitor," cried 
John, as soon as he could speak ; but to no pur- 
pose, the knight was too far away 

Let us leave these now, even the feelings of 
the fair Isabella, and turn to the occupants of yon 



SELECTIONS. 185 

noble castle. It is now years since the tourna- 
ment, so feebly described, took place. In that 
noble and commanding personage, do we not 
recognize the former fugitive knight, bending 
over the counterpart of himself, a child, lying on 
the lap of its fond mother ? and in that mother, 
do we not see the gentle, beauteous Isabella ? 
Yes, even so. I cannot tell how, but it happened 
that they met while Richard again occupied 
England's throne ; and as Henri made proposals 
for her hand, she found it not so hard a task to 
bestow, as, on a former occasion, she thought she 
should. In the presence of their approving king, 
they were united j and often did they rally each 
other about the scenes of the tournament, before 
John. 



13 



186 SELECTIONS. 



THE VISION. 

I was seated in my study, surrounded by books 
of science. In my hand was a history of the 
progress of knowledge and liberty from the earli- 
est ages, and of the rise and fall of nations, and 
I thought its date was in the year 1900. I had 
been perusing its wonderful pages, and contem- 
plating the truths therein contained ; my mind 
wandered over the scenes of the past, and was 
now dwelling upon the grand strife between Lib- 
erty and Ambition, heroic Greece had witnessed. 
I turned to contemplate the history of fair Italy, 
and view its progress in liberty. I dwelt upon 
Rome, that wonderful city, which had witnessed 
so great changes. By turns, each city of Europe 
was present to my mind, its progress dwelt upon 
with pleasure, not unmixed with pain. I sighed 
to think of the strife they had witnessed ; but as 
I thought of the change they had experienced 
from following the bright example of my own 
glorious country, my heart beat with rapture, 
and overflowed with gratitude to those who had 
founded its government. But I longed to see 
more closely the progress of liberty and dissem- 



SELECTIONS. 187 

ination of knowledge, and the wish involuntarily- 
escaped from my lips, that I could talk with one 
who had witnessed these changes ; though I, at 
the same time, thought my wish was vain, for 
the dead could not rise again, and the living saw 
only what I saw. But scarcely had the wish 
escaped my lips, before a rustling, as of garments, 
attracted my attention. I looked, and what was 
my astonishment at beholding a figure as of a 
female of exceeding beauty, standing before me. 

I gazed upon her with wonder, and as I gazed, 
bowed myself with reverence, for there was that 
in her countenance not to be mistaken ; — before 
me stood the Goddess of Knowledge. She spoke : 

II Young man, thy wish is heard, and loving 
those who follow learning's paths, it shall be 
granted. Follow me." She stretched forth her 
hand, the which, speechless with surprise, I took. 
Together we mounted the skies. My country 
was soon far below me, and, supported by a 
chariot of clouds, we crossed the vasty deep 
of ocean. Europe lay before us. France was 
passed, and fair Italy and Greece, the land of 
song, lay beneath our gaze. " Here will we 
pause," said my beautiful guide ; " now is thy 
wish accomplished — before thee lie the lands 
thou desirest so much to see. Yonder in the 
distance lies Greece ; and there is Italy, with its 



188 SELECTIONS. 

mighty city, Rome. Look, and say what thou 
seest." I looked, and beheld, not poor and meagre 
kingdoms, but a country teeming with the richest 
of earth's products. The people, millions in 
number, seemed doing but one thing — singing 
praises, or listening to the eloquence that flowed 
from the lips of countless orators. I marvelled at 
this, and asked the cause. " They are singing 
songs of gratitude that they are free. This is the 
anniversary of their liberation from the thraldom 
of kings and petty tyrants, when darkness and 
ignorance flew from the land, and were fol- 
lowed by knowledge and light. On the yearly 
return of the days on which those things took 
place, they rejoice that kings are no more. Lib- 
erty dwells with them, and the people, in their 
majesty, govern themselves. 

" Cast thine eyes now upon Greece. There 
also is liberty. See, the true lords of the soil 
have returned to govern their land. The haughty 
Turk no more grinds them in the dust, for here 
too has Liberty triumphed ; they are again free. 
Now," continued she, " let us turn again and 
view sunny France. There also you see the peo- 
ple rejoicing in their freedom from the tyranny 
of those kings and emperors that so long racked 
her noble people. Hark to the song of that com- 
pany of peasants in yonder vineyard : its burden 



SELECTIONS. 189 

is the praise of those who obtained for them their 
liberty. Now view England, Ireland and Scot- 
land : — the seat of so many hard struggles be- 
tween kings and subjects, is now free as Colum- 
bia. Let us shape our flight," she still contin- 
ued, " o'er the rest of Europe. As with Britain, 
France, Italy, Greece, so with the other states. 
The same great struggle that liberated one, libe- 
rated them also. Would'st know the history of 
that struggle ? When freedom found no resting 
place in this land of kings and emperors, with a 
small band of hardy pilgrims, Columbia's land 
she sought. There she found her long desired 
place of repose ; and there she planted that mighty 
republic, whose glory is the theme of the world, 
and whose people are the most enlightened of 
earth. The struggle was long and hard, ere she 
attained that eminence, but success at last crown- 
ed her efforts. As other nations watched her 
growth, they longed to be free ; they longed to 
partake of the happiness freedom imparted, and 
they resolved to obtain it. But not at once was 
this obtained ; no, many years passed by ere the 
prize was won. When the struggle began, it 
soon became general, for one nation might not 
obtain it without the other, and thus all Europe 
was revolutionized. The struggle was success- 
ful — Europe was free. The slave no longer 



190 SELECTIONS. 

bowed to his master in Russia, and the Turk no 
longer held the Greek in bondage ; but all were 

FREE." 

Here the goddess paused ; and as I gazed upon 
her face, there shone from it such a majestic glow 
as my highest thoughts never dreamed of before. 
I could not interrupt her glorious contemplations. 
I could only gaze with awe. She again addressed 
me : 

u Now, as you cast your eyes over Europe's 
broad expanse, see you not the numberless tem- 
ples pointing to the skies in every city, town and 
village ? Liberty can only dwell with light ; — 
with ignorance it cannot stay. Conscious of this 
truth, the liberated have erected those temples, 
where the youth of Europe are seen congregating 
for the acquisition of truth and knowledge ; and 
richly shall their exertions be paid ; for whoever 
seeks knowledge shall find it ; and till time's 
remotest age, shall liberty be the blessing of 
Europe. Even now, as we gaze, see the count- 
less millions of youth assembling around those 
temples, each one a future patriot and friend of 
his country." She paused, and again com- 
menced : 

" Let us retrace our flight, and view fair Colum- 
bia, mine own peculiar province, and Liberty's 
brightest gem, dear to her as her first resting 



SELECTIONS. 191 

place, and from which she disseminated these 
principles, the result of which is now seen through- 
out the civilized world." 

Towards Columbia Ave shaped our course, and, 
as it beamed upon our view, nought on earth had 
appeared so beautiful to my sight before. Below 
us it lay a rich and varied scene. O, beautiful in- 
deed seemed its green fields and lands, teeming 
with' the rich produce of agriculture ; its gigantic 
rivers and lofty mountains, and its wide-spread 
prairies, all harmonizing with the vieAv ! Al- 
though these formed a scene beautiful and unsur- 
passed, that which was most pleasing to my glad 
sight, was the many millions of happy people, 
enjoying in security and peace the blessings of 
freedom. As the goddess gazed upon it, a 
brighter fire lit up her eyes, and new energies 
marked her speech. " Hail, blest America ! " 
cried she ; "never can I gaze upon thee without 
feelings of glory, pride and love ; for that, here 
first dawned Liberty, companion of Knowledge. 
There the power of Knowledge herself was first 
respected. Happy thou in being her son. Mayest 
thou prove thyself worthy of the proud name of 
American ! Look over the beautiful scene before 
us, and see the millions of youth gathering around 
the institutions of learning, receiving those seeds, 
the plants of which shall be nourished to the 



192 SELECTIONS. 

country's future glory ; for, founded on the ever- 
lasting rock of truth, Columbia's glory shall be 
such as palmiest days of kingdoms never knew. 
Not like the gorgeous splendor that follows the 
setting sun to the western skies, but the brilliant 
purity of morning's dawn ; for the sun of America 
is on the ascent, nor shall it set till ' time shall 
close his records, and the heavens shall pass away 
as a scroll.' " 

The vision passed away, and I was alone in 
my study. 



SELECTIONS. 193 



FRAGMENTS. 



AN OLD MAN'S REFLECTIONS. 

I have awakened, as it were, from a dream of 
almost a life's duration. Alas! alas! that I 
should sleep the most valued portion of life, only 
to waken as I am about entering upon the " pale 
realms of shade ;" to prepare for which, would 
well occupy ages of active wakefulness. In the 
hope that the recital of my experience may prove 
of some benefit to those who are but entering 
upon life's duties, it is, that I indite these lines. 
I entered upon life with perhaps as fair prospects 
as ever beamed upon youth at the commence- 
ment of his course. Friends, warm and ardent, 
greeted me at every turn ; and, above all, wealth 
was in my possession ; that which, with proper 
care, might have made me happy and rejoicing 
in the blessings of those whose misfortunes I had 
relieved, but which, in the end, had well nigh 
proved my destruction, as it has robbed me, and 



194 SELECTIONS. 

those who might have been benefited by it, of 
the best portion of my years. Though I had 
many true friends, who would have stood by me 
through good or evil report, my wealth caused 
me to be mainly surrounded by those butterfly 
characters, without either stability of mind or 
habits, whose only object seems to have been to 
live upon the credulity of the world, weak them- 
selves, and make it subservient to their desires 
and wishes. Surrounded by these, I but too 
readily surrendered myself to their desires, went 
with the stream on which they floated, and yield- 
ed myself to the giddy whirlpool of fashion and 
pleasure, — or excitement, as would perhaps be 
more correct to say, for it was not all pleasure, 
though it might appear so to others. Naturally 
endowed with a mind fond of thought, there 
were moments when excitement had died away, 
and left only an indistinct recollection of scenes, 
when fancy would lead me to perceive that my 
course was not such as became one endowed with 
capabilities that might be a benefit to the world ; 
and in those moments, when felt alone, and re- 
flection was, as it were, forced upon me, I was 
far from happy. But short time had I then for 
reflection, and few were the minutes I was alone 
when I could help it ; for if my meditations were 
not interrupted by the entrance of my gay com- 



SELECTIONS. 195 

panions, as was most generally the case, I drove 
thought from me, by seeking them, till, at last, I 
learned to avoid thought, now become almost 
insupportable. Thus, in the gay round of plea- 
sure, youth and manhood passed away. Those 
who would have been true friends, seeing that I 
neglected their counsels and chose to follow a 
useless mode of life, at last, were either forced to 
drop me, or I became weary of, and left them ; 
and thus was left without other guidance than a 
passionate love of exciting pleasure. Thus pass- 
ed my days, until, as I before said, youth and the 
best portion of manhood were passed, and left 
me, approaching age, with a diminished fortune, 
an almost ruined constitution, and scarce a sin- 
gle one of my former companions, who so gayly 
fluttered about me in my prosperity ; — no, their 
object was to live upon others' wealth, and prey 
upon them ; and when they found they could do 
so but little longer, they fell away, to prey upon 
new victims. 

Pleasure had now lost its great charm of ex- 
citement, and I was forced, at last, once more to 
think. And what were the pangs I thus en- 
dured ! I found, when thought did return to my 
almost exhausted frame, I was not entirely bereft 
of sensibility. Life passed in review before me. I 
had entered the world with bright prospects ; I was 



196 SELECTIONS. 

now fast approaching the grave, with scarce a 
single friend. I was endowed with talents of a 
high order, that might have been made beneficial 
to the cause of humanity, either in the halls of 
legislation, or in the more domestic social circle. 
I might have drawn around me friends, who 
would have loved and respected me, and held 
me in grateful remembrance and esteem. Those 
talents had been wasted, and I had lived a life of 
folly and uselessness, — ay, worse, — for as I 
had been led away from usefulness, had not my 
influence, also, been given to induce others so to 
go astray ? How many shall the grave hold at 
one dread day, led by my example, from the 
paths of virtue ! I know not how many there 
may be ! I shudder to bring the thought to 
mind. 

Who shall lament me, when the sod lies over 
my mortal remains ? What tear of the many 
that might have dropped, will now be shed in 
memory of me ? I am fast hastening to the 
grave, yet I would not go without making some 
effort to redeem a few of the errors of an ill-spent 
life. I would warn those who are now entering 
upon its many scenes, to take heed to their ways, 
lest when they have passed its meridian, they 
too lament a worse than useless part. — Though 
thoughtless pleasure may, for a while, be tempt- 



SELECTIONS. 197 

ing, though its excitements be dear for the pre- 
sent, could it be known what pain must succeed 
them, how soon would they be thrown aside for 
ways of peaceful virtue ! The grave is now 
before me. I must soon sink to my final resting 
place, and oh ! with what pleasure would I do 
so, could I reflect that my passage to it had been 
one of usefulness ! could I reflect, that I had done 
my full meed of duty to friends and mankind ! I 
would have those who are now entering life's 
domain, take heed that they follow not my ex- 
ample, but that rather, when they leave this 
world, it may be with a reflection I cannot enjoy 
— that their lives have been usefully and pro- 
fitably spent. 



DEATH. 

There is nothing, perhaps, the thought of 
which is so much shunned, as the thought of 
death and a future life. Men hear the sound, 
shudder, and wonder that such a change as death 
must come over them. As to a future life, they 
fear there is no such thing, though reflection 
would soon clear them of their doubt. The late 
lamented Mr. Leggett, a few days before his death, 
composed a few lines on this subject, commenc- 



198 SELECTIONS. 

ing somewhat in this manner : " There's no such 
thing as death ; the end of life is but the beginning 
of a new existence ;" and as such, do all reflecting 
men regard it. What a cold and gloomy religion 
must that be, (if religion it can be called,) that 
teaches, that when his breath leaves man, that is 
his end ! He who has been the life and delight 
of the family circle here ; he whose words have 
awakened an enthusiastic glow in the hearts of 
thousands of his fellow-men ; he, whose voice has 
been the sound to which tens of thousands have 
rallied ; the maiden who has been the pride of 
friends and joy of parents ; the young man of 
promising talents ; all, when brought to death's 
door, cease to exist, except as a mass of earth ! 
May I be preserved from believing in such a doc- 
trine ! But, " there is no such thing as death." 
Nothing else dies ; why should man die ? The 
flowers that fade in autumn, spring again, with 
new beauties, when the season returns. The 
grass, that moulders in Winter, with Spring 
arises anew; and trees that have cast off their 
garments, adopt new ones, and though cut down 
and burned, exist yet, though in a different 
shape. As the seasons, after they have passed 
away, return again ; as day succeeds the fading 
night ; so will it be with the spirit of man ; a 
repose in the grave, and he will again spring into 



SELECTIONS. 199 

existence, a new and beautiful being ; the tram- 
mels of earth will be cast off, and the spirit will 
rejoice in its freedom. We all know, that as our 
frames grow old and worn, the spirit or light of 
life within us becomes dim, and glows with a 
feeble spark ; it follows then, that if our frames 
were never thrown off, the spirit would become 
incapable of action, in fact, dead. Death is but 
the exchange of an earthly, worn frame, for a 
better one : one that never becomes enfeebled. 
With such a change in view, death is disarmed of 
one of its greatest terrors, and man passes through 
the dark valley without fear. 



HOPE. 

How mysterious is our being ! How myste- 
rious the manner of our lives ! Why do we 
live ? For what purpose do we toil, day after 
day, and year after year, in one ceaseless round ? 
Is it that we may acquire money ? If so, how 
foolish does it appear thus to labor for what we 
must soon leave ! Is it for happiness ? Yet it 
does seem vain to seek it amid that which is 
continually loading us with care and trouble. 
We go, we come, and to what does it amount ? 



200 SELECTIONS. 

What is it that gives to life its sacred charm ? 
What is it that enables us to go through the 
same busy scenes with ceaseless repetition, with 
new and ever- varying emotions ? Although, 
from day to day, we return to the same walks of 
life ; although, year after year, we toil incessantly 
at the same occupation, yet do we not become 
weary of it. There is a something that, as each 
day passes over our heads, enables us to hail its 
approach with feelings, not of languor or wea- 
riness, but of joy, that our vigor is renewed, 
and we are still enabled to follow our pursuits. 
There is a something within us that, as the light 
which greets the eye of the mariner who has 
long watched for it, gives to him new strength 
and revives his drooping spirits, also inspires us 
with new life, and imparts to us new vigor, 
when our minds are depressed with thoughts of 
the many sorrows and hardships of our lot, and 
enables us in life's darkest hour to wear a face 
of happiness, and calmly await the future. This 
something is Hope. It is that which lightens 
the burden of man, giving his countenance a 
joyful cast, even in times of sorrow. It is hope 
that enables him to triumph over and laugh to 
scorn his worst foe, despair. Is his brow shroud- 
ed in darkness, hope dispels the dark shade, 
and covers it, in its stead, with sunny smiles. 



SELECTIONS. 201 

Were it not for this hope, life would indeed be a 
" dull reality ; " sorrows would reign where joy 
now sits light, and the approach of the future be 
regarded as that of the jailer to the condemned 
felon. Well and truly has Addison written, that 
" that life is the happiest which is the fullest of 
hope." 



TEARS. 

There is in tears something, which, while it 
conveys a sad impression to the heart, is yet 
pleasing at times, and more gratifying than many 
so-called pleasures ; for tears universally draw 
our sympathy towards the weeper, and not only 
that, but they speak of sympathy also. They 
show a tender heart, and one in which the gent- 
lest passions have fullest sway • for one in whom 
the bad passions are found strong, rarely weeps, 
as with our tears seems to flow away also all that 
is bad, leaving us filled with better feelings than 
before dwelt within us. There is scarce any 
thing that opens so readily the fountain of tears, 
as that which calls us to separate from some loved 
friend who has enjoyed our sympathies for a long 
time, whether that separation be in spirit, or of 
the body. Above all, death touches us the most — 
then it is, when some loved one is called to de- 
14 



202 SELECTIONS. 

part, that our grief grows more strong : and I 
would not have it otherwise. Although I would 
not see too much grief at death, yet I would not 
leave this world without a single tear glistening in 
the eyes of those I leave behind me ; for it would 
bespeak a coldness of heart. I would have those 
who love me, though but little, evince that little, 
or else it would say, plainer than words, that I 
was not such an one as, by a kind disposition 
and gentle manners, drew the sympathies and 
love of my friends, and endeared them to me. 
It would seem to say, plainer than words, " thou 
wert not a being formed for love, and earth is as 
well without thee." O how would my heart be 
pained, did I know that such would be said of 
me when I die ! When I am called to depart, 
I would be lamented — I would have the tears, 
in the still, silent hour of reflection, come unbid- 
den to the eyes, as a lament for one, loved for 
his good qualities and kindness of heart. 



GUARDIAN SPIRITS. 

What a beautiful, consoling doctrine is that 
of guardian spirits, hinted at by some heavenly 
minds ! O, it is a glorious thought, that while 
we are busied with the cares and troubles of this 



SELECTIONS. 203 

nether world, there are spirits on high, watching 
over us with solicitude, and directing our ener- 
gies in right paths ! that as some evil imagina- 
tion comes into our minds, the dread thought is 
banished by a guardian spirit. And may not 
those guardian spirits be, in some measure, the 
spirits of our departed friends, who, seeing the 
danger through which they had passed, are anx- 
ious to preserve us from the same, and therefore 
hover around us, to guard us in all our actions ? 
Happy is he who follows as they direct ! Wretch- 
ed is he who neglects their soft whisperings ! 
Man's life is a mixture of good and bad. The 
good, we may imagine, is the path through which 
they, bearing the will of the All-Supreme one, 
lead us gently on ; the bad, that path in which 
we stray when we neglect their counsels. It is 
a doctrine especially soothing and beautiful to 
those wounded by the loss of near and dear rela- 
tions. While they are still lingering here, they 
feel the gentle influence acting from above, and 
grief is in part assuaged. They direct the ener- 
gies of the poor earthly mortal ; and when, in 
silent contemplation, his imagination dwells on 
things heavenly, they commune with him, and 
an holy serenity and calmness reigns within his 
breast ; and as he mingles with the contaminating 
things of earth, he remains by their guidance 
pure and uncontaminated. 



204 SELECTIONS. 



PROPER USE OF TIME. 

Time, or the proper use of it, is a subject that 
most persons dislike very much to contemplate. 
Why, they can scarcely tell, but so it is. They 
are willing to dwell on scenes that have passed 
away, but seldom to bestow much thought on 
the future, or whether the past might not have 
been used to greater advantage, in a different 
manner. This, evidently, ought not so to be ; 
for what does not depend on time, or the use we 
make of it ? All our hopes, both here and in a 
brighter sphere, depend on it. The passage of 
time, then, ought to be carefully watched, and 
no moment suffered to pass without being em- 
ployed to advantage, either in improving our own 
condition, or the condition of others. Indeed, 
if we strive continually to improve the condition 
of others, our own improvement will follow as a 
matter of course ; for, happiness being the great 
object of our search, those will rarely miss find- 
ing it, who seek it in the improvement of their 
fellow beings ; as a glow of delight and pleasure 
comes over the heart, at the thought of a good 
action, such as those, whose only thoughts con- 
ceive the best and most rapid means of acquiring 
riches, can never feel. The mind and the heart 



SELECTIONS. 205 

are more the same thing, than many, I suppose, 
imagine ; for the one depends almost entirely on 
the other. If the heart be pure and holy, the 
mind will dwell on things that are pure and inno- 
cent also. Out of the abundance of the heart the 
mouth speaketh ; and if the mind be impure, the 
mouth will soon betray it. If, therefore, we 
seek to improve the condition of the heart, that 
of the mind will soon follow. 



TIME'S CHANGES. 

How great are Time's changes ! Nothing 
escapes his unsparing hand ; all things, by him, 
are changed. In boyhood, we laugh and sport, 
yet, amid our mirthfulness, long for manhood ; 
and when we have reached " man's estate," we 
sigh because our boyhood has passed away, and 
envy the young and merry as they join in their 
plays around us. When old age has arrived, we 
regret that the meridian of life is past, and wish 
again to be young. Why is this so ? Some rea- 
son there must be for it. In youth we wish to 
arrive at manhood, that our sphere of action may 
be extended, and that we may give way to our 
ambitious hopes and high aspirations. At man- 
hood, we wish to be young again, that we may 



206 SELECTIONS. 

be rid of its peculiar cares and troubles, and that 
we may again enjoy our past youthful sports and 
plays. We remember the many hours we whiled 
away, and we long for such circumstances again. 
In old age, we wish to re-live our lives, that we 
may live them better. It is then, when our 
business is, mostly, to contemplate the past, that 
we see faults that passed unnoticed in the busy 
whirl of life ; and things that before we thought 
worthy of us, then become contemptible in our 
eyes, and fill us with dejection and sorrow. If, 
then, such is the experience of man's life, how 
ought those who are now young to take warn- 
ing, and live blamelessly ! 



FAME. 

Who is there that does not desire fame of some 
kind ? There is, probably, not one ; and it is 
proper it should be so. I would not advocate 
fame as the prime object of all our actions, as the 
end to which all our thoughts should tend, but 
rather that we may live so that our deeds shall 
be such as shall make us worthy of being remem- 
bered by our friends after we shall have been 
separated from them. 

The object of man should be the greatest good 



SELECTIONS. 207 

to the greatest number, and he who shall aid 
largely in procuring that great good, is worthy 
of being remembered when the bonds that bound 
him to this lower world shall have been broken, 
and his spirit have soared to brighter regions. 
Yet, how many are there, who live and die — 
and that is their whole history. Even those who 
were most intimate with them in life, soon forget 
them. 

I would not have this to be so entirely. I 
would that the history of each individual might 
be continued to a greater length, and that it 
might be said of him, " he lived, while he lived, 
eminent for his good actions, and was an honor 
to his country : when he died, he was univer- 
sally lamented ; for, at his death, his country 
lost a faithful servant, and a just and honorable 
citizen." Such is the fame I would have awarded 
to us when we shall be no more. I would 
be honorably remembered. This fame is con- 
fined to no particular situation or condition of 
life. All are capable of acquiring it, if we but 
press forward with honesty of purpose and sin- 
cerity of heart. 



208 SELECTIONS. 



FOR AN ALBUM.. 

I am asked to add my name to the list of those 
I find recorded here. Yet, why ? To what pur- 
pose ? It will be but a few short years, ere the 
thoughts that are here noted down will be lost 
in the vast abyss that receives all things. A few 
short years, before their authors will be num- 
bered among the living no more, and all memory 
of them cease. The book that contains their 
fancy in gs may survive them awhile, but it shall 
pass into the hands of those who will be stran- 
gers to them, perhaps of another generation. I 
look upon the names here written, names un- 
known to me, and read the lines above them, 
some serious, some gay, and as I look and read, 
ask, who and what are they ? I know them not ; 
yet these words tell of beings like myself, wan- 
dering on through life's chequered scenes, ani- 
mated by passions similar to those which animate 
me. I see them not ; yet here I converse with 
them, breathe their thoughts, and join in their 
kindred sentiments. Yet, how long? Their 
lives speak of friendships warm, of buoyant, 
ardent hopes, prayers for a happy course in life, 
and confidence in the future. Yet, how soon 
will they, who thus breathe their wishes, and she 



SELECTIONS. 209 

for whom they are uttered, standing on the 
threshold of those 

" pale realms of shade," 



realize, with fearful force, that their, lives are, 
indeed, like " tales that are told." Their mem- 
ory, perhaps lengthened by their mementoes in 
this book, will linger with a few, like the mem- 
ory of a pleasing recital ; yet, short the time, 
ere even this, also, shall die away, and none sigh 
over their tombs, except, perchance, some stray 
passer, who will sigh to think, as he looks on 
the slab that marks the spot where they lie, that 
the grave must, before many years have rolled 
around, be also his home. 



MEMORY. 

Oh ! dear to me are memory's dreams, 
Reviving pleasure's soothing lays ; 

How bright they make hope's joyous beams, 
Telling of happier, sweeter days ! 

They banish from my darkened soul 
The pressing woes of fleeting time j 

They bid griefs billows cease to roll, 
And bear^me to a brighter clime, 
15 



210 SELECTIONS. 

Where lovelier faces round me gleam, 
And joy, ecstatic, reigns again ; 

And every early sunlit scene, 
Renews association's chain. 

My languid, tired soul, once more 
Awakes to long-past joys and bliss ; 

And passion, burning as before, 
Revives my faded happiness. 

Aye, in those fond and lovely dreams, 
Misanthropy's dark reign decays ; 

And youthful exultation seems 
To sweetly fill its vacant place. 

O, could I thus for ever live ! 

My joy, my bliss, my all, a dream ! 
And O, that gentle sleep could give 

Visions so full of love's bright gleam ! 

Then would I bid the world Farewell ! 

And quick resign my soul to sleep ; 
And nought but nature's funeral knell 

Should wake me from my slumber deep. 



64 5 •!<* 



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